


Won't Put My Hands Up (and Surrender)

by faeleverte



Series: Harmonies Verse [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A nod in the general direction of canon, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-31 11:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15118139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: Eighteen years have passed since Clint and Phil met in a tiny town in the Florida panhandle. Eighteen years without each other, living their own lives, growing up the rest of the way. Phil is finally getting out of the Army, and all the alphabet agencies want him. An unexpected encounter pushes him the rest of the way into SHIELD's arms...and right into a hug provided by the arms of his first true love.Now they have to learn to navigate a relationship as coworkers, adults, just good friends.Because, after all, eighteen years apart is too long for feelings to survive.Right?!





	1. Last Surviving Friend That You Know

It had been a full three years since Phil had last been in the US, and he couldn’t tell if his inability to sit still came from the unfamiliarity of the city around him or if it stemmed from the nervous anticipation he felt about his dinner companion. It had been eighteen years since they’d last seen one another, not counting that very morning. Eighteen years, during which, Phil had been around the world, faced undeclared wars, learned how to handle himself as both a soldier and a covert operative, picked up a few new scars and a more pronounced bend in his nose, and grown from a lost little orphan boy into a man.

At least, Phil hoped he’d grown into a man. Sometimes, in quiet moments in his head, he wasn’t quite so sure. 

He fidgeted with the end of his tie, straightened his spoon on the tabletop, smoothed his napkin under his fork, and then took a deep breath and told himself to _just stop it, already._ He didn’t really understand why he was so nervous; it was just an ordinary meal with an old friend. A chance to catch up. Hear what’d been going on in each other’s lives. After all, three of the jobs Phil had been offered were in Washington DC itself; might be nice to have a contact in the city. Especially one who’d known him before, back when they were both kids who thought themselves too grown up.

Phil stopped the thought there, telling himself not to get his hopes up about the road this particular friendship could lead him down. Twenty year old feelings didn’t count for much. He didn’t even know if–

“Hey, Phil!” Barney Barton caught Phil’s arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him into a tight hug. Phil clung to him; a little startled by his own reluctance to let go. It had been a long time since Phil had last been hugged. Barney squeezed harder, muscular arms squashing Phil’s shoulders. “God, it’s good to see you, man. Didn’t expect you to show up in DC this morning.”

“Gotta admit,” Phil answered, finally making his arms drop to his side, “I had no idea I would find you when I walked into that lobby this morning. FBI, though? Never would have guessed.”

It _had_ been a helluva shock, to see a mop of red hair across the room, find himself pinned by a pair of laughing grey eyes. He’d have been surprised that Barney recognized him, except that Phil would have known Barney anywhere. They’d lived together for several months, eighteen years before. Technically, Phil had lived with Barney’s younger brother, Clint. More than lived with him. Had been so madly in love with him that it had taken years for the feelings to fade and for Phil to quit aching with how badly he’d missed Clint after they parted.

“Do you remember that lady who brought you home from that camp?” Barney squeezed Phil’s shoulder. 

_Of course_ Phil remembered her, SA Hand, who had rescued him from the gay conversion camp and taken him back home. Well, “home.” Back to the trailer shared by Barney and his younger brother, Clint. Mostly back to Clint, who had been Phil’s best friend, his boyfriend, his entire _world_ for the last nine months of Phil’s childhood. Phil hadn’t thought much about Hand over the years, except when he found himself wishing that someone could pluck him up and again take to somewhere he was loved so deeply. He’d trained himself out of wishing that place he could go to was wherever Clint Barton was.

Eventually.

“Yeah,” Phil bobbed his head one time. “She’s not the kind of person I would be likely to forget. That was...quite an experience.”

Barney smiled at him, sweet and crooked, and Phil’s heart lurched a little. He remembered that look; both Barton boys smiled like that when they were trying to apologize for something they weren’t actually sorry about.

“When, um, when you and Clint went into the house,” Barney began, looking away as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. 

Phil tried not to think too hard about what he and Clint had gotten up to as soon as they went in the house that night. _That_ wasn’t the kind of thing Phil was likely to forget too easily, either; he also tried not to think about how often he’d dragged that memory out when he’d needed a release, emotionally as much as physically, and only had the touch of his hand to get him there. Barney raised an eyebrow at Phil, and Phil nodded for him to go on, trying to keep his expression blank

“She and I stayed outside and talked for–” Barney blew out a long breath– “long time. She’s actually the one that convinced me to go ahead and go to college, really. So I could do this.”

“In one conversation, she changed your whole life, huh?” Phil gestured toward the booth and slid carefully back into his own seat. 

“Nah.” Barney sat down, spreading out to take up his whole side of the table; he’d always been a big guy. With the full weight of adulthood on his shoulders and frame, he was absolutely _huge_ , all broad shoulders and flat stomach and thick arms. It was mind-bending for Phil, to recognize so much of Barney from before and to still see all the differences. “I called her about once a week after that. Until I got through college. And Quantico.”

“And never told me or Clint?” Phil picked up his menu, hoping his voice had betrayed nothing when he said Clint’s name. He wanted to ask, wanted to demand, wanted to know: where was Clint now? How was he? Had he fallen in love? Gotten married? Had children? Was he happy and whole? But Phil had no real right to demand answers, not really. Not nearly twenty years after the fact. No matter how in love they’d been. 

The last Phil had heard even a whisper about someone who was _maybe_ Clint Barton had been nearly a decade before. It had been just a rumor about a merc being chased by the feds, courted by other agencies. A pair of them, in fact, with a kill list longer than Phil’s and a reputation for being ghosts. One of them, though, used a bow. And never missed. Phil had tried to poke around for more information, but he hadn’t had the connections to dig too deeply then. After that, he tried to make himself forget.

If Clint was still out there, as an assassin or a merc, if he was still on the wrong side of the rule of the law, Barney might not even have the answers Phil wanted. _That_ thought, that Clint had maybe lost his brother along the way, made Phil’s chest ache and made him want answers even more. He took a steadying breath and looked up to find Barney watching him, eyes sparkling.

“Clint woulda shit himself if he’d known,” Barney said, grinning over his menu, pulling Phil back to the present and further into the past at once, “and you never could keep anything from him.”

Phil laughed awkwardly, feeling himself flush, and forcefully turned his attention back to what he wanted for supper. 

“So, ah…” He trailed off, not sure where to go from there. His mind drifted back to whispered conversations in the dark, tangled in the muscular arms of a boy who he’d trusted with everything in him, who had trusted Phil with all his own secrets. Memories overwhelmed him for a moment, and he swallowed hard, no longer seeing the words on the menu he held. A moment later, he became aware of Barney saying his name, repeatedly, with a snicker catching at the ell on the end. Phil reached up to smooth his hair and grinned ruefully.

“Sorry. Just...remembering.” 

Barney’s level grey eyes, always too perceptive, narrowed for a moment, and then he barked out his familiar laugh, the sound sparking another thousand memories. Phil felt his shoulders unknot, nervous nostalgia giving way to something easier. Eighteen years had passed, and life had gone on, but here he sat with a dear old friend who still laughed just the same as he had before. It was reassuring, to know Barney’s laugh had stayed the same.

“Running into me probably stirs up all _kinds_ of memories.” Barney’s smile softened into a look Phil only ever remembered seeing directed toward Clint. “Wait’ll I tell m’ baby brother I saw you. He’ll be so damn jealous.”

“You...You’re in contact then? With him? With Clint?” Phil dropped his menu and folded his hands in his lap to still the shaking. “Last I heard anything concrete about him was about about two years after I...” _left him_. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. “I heard that he ran into some trouble. And...”

With a heavy sigh, Barney leaned back in his seat and reached up to loosen his tie. The tie struck Phil as funny; Barney had never seemed like kind of person who’d grow up to have a necktie job. On consideration, the FBI made sense, but the tie...Phil couldn’t quite get his brain around it. Granted, he was sitting there in his own tie and suit and feeling like an utter boob. Years and years of BDUs and tacsuits and kevlar had gotten Phil into the habit of thinking that he’d _never_ have need of a suit. But, here he was. And here was Barney. 

Phil wondered if Clint still looked like his brother. He studied Barney's face-- his pugilist's nose and wide eyes, the oddly delicate mouth-- and tried to picture his brilliant red hair turned blond and the rest of him three years younger. His libido perked up, and Phil told his hormones to control themselves. It was entirely probable that his mental image was all wrong; maybe Clint had gone to seed. Still, though...there had been that one little rumor...

“I can’t tell you Clint’s story,” Barney said at last. He looked up and waved to a server. “But suffice it to say that it’d make one helluva movie. He dropped off the grid for a few years in there. But now he’s back in the world, using his… _unique skillset_ on the side of angels. Working for SHIELD, in fact. Been there for about five years.”

“Oh.” Phil blinked, staring blankly into the middle distance. Clint was with an organization that Phil knew, that he’d _worked_ with on joint ops, even. He could have run into him. Maybe they knew the same people. Maybe Phil should have tried again– and harder– to find him. “They put a bid in for me, too.”

“All the alphabets want that Coulson kid,” Barney drawled, voice warm and teasing. “Not surprising, if half of what I’ve heard about your career is true. You could do worse than SHIELD.” He thought for a moment and then shot Phil a far-too-knowing look. “But it’s a big organization. No promises that you’d….” He trailed off, but Phil understood, anyway.

 _No promises that he’d be working with Clint._ No promises that he’d never _see_ Clint.

Phil thought about it. Would he _want_ to work with Clint? Would Clint want to work with him? Would it be weird, with the history between them? But, really, what history did they have: just nine short months nearly two decades before, when they’d both been too young to have a clue what love really meant. Too young and too broken. Too busy losing themselves in each other’s eyes and hands and mouths and bodies and…

 _Get yourself together, Coulson._

Phil took another deep breath. Really, Clint was as much a stranger to him as Barney. More, at this point, because here Barney sat. So why did Phil feel as if he’d suddenly come home? Why did seeing Barney’s excited grin across the lobby that morning suddenly untie knots that Phil had carried in his muscles for what felt like forever?

“Wanna see some pictures?” Barney watched him with that laser-focused look again, but the question seemed like a complete non sequitur. Phil nodded dumbly, wondering if he was about to see Clint’s face: grownup Clint. The Clint Phil had sometimes tried to imagine on lonely nights in dark, scary places. 

The first picture Barney pulled out of his inside breast pocket was of two little girls, one blonde, one with Barney’s flaming red hair. They both smiled brightly at the camera, but something about their large, solemn eyes tugged at Phil’s memory. Who _did_ that little blonde girl look like? Not a Barton; her features were too dainty, too finely drawn for that. Something about her mouth, the sweetness of her smile...

“Oh my god!” Phil leaned across to snatch the picture out of Barney’s hand. He held it closer, examining that face. “She looks _exactly_ like Afina!”

“I always thought she looked more like Rodica.” Barney happy smiled brightened with pride. “You remember my youngest sister-in-law?”

“You married Afina.” Phil smiled back up, warmth and wonder growing in his chest. “You really did it.”

“I did.” Barney leaned back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. “Twelve years last October.”

“Damn, Barn.” Phil handed the picture back. “That’s awesome.”

Barney laughed again and pulled out another picture, this one of his entire family. He stood, proud and tall, with his arm wrapped around Afina’s still-slender shoulders. The two little girls from the previous picture stood in front of them, smiling half over their shoulders at the wee baby with the dark hair that lay in his mother’s arms. 

“Tabby, Francis, and the little one is Charlie.”

“For your siblings and yourself, eh?” Phil smiled at the picture, a strange prickle in his eyes. He blinked to keep from welling up. “Good. You all look happy.” He smiled across at Barney, noting that Barney’s eyes were a bit glassy and red, too. “I’m really, really happy for you.”

“Thanks, man.” Barney sniffed hard and reached back into his jacket, pulling out one more little rectangle. “And there’s the little punk bitch himself.” His tone was warm and fond and full of all the affection he’d always had talking about his brother. Phil had long ago learned the mocking names and swearing at each other had been the way the Barton brothers showed one another love. “Taken last October at mine and Fina’s anniversary party.”

He tossed the picture casually at Phil, and Phil told his hand not to tremble as he reached to pick it up off the table. Barney huffed a dry sort of laugh and said something about the bathroom. Phil couldn’t even acknowledge him. He stared at the glossy surface, frozen by a challenging look from a pair of eyes he still could conjure up perfectly in his dreams.

The baby-softness around the edges of Clint’s face had faded into sharper lines, but he still looked way younger than he was. Some of the plumpness had gone from his pout, but his bottom lip was still smooth and soft, and the edge of his top lip was sharp enough to cut. Both earlobes sported hoops, and one of them also had a pair of studs: many fewer earrings than the last picture Phil had ever seen of Clint, sixteen or so years before. His shaggy, bleached hair had been cut shorter, jelled into a stylish mess, that made Phil think of beds and waking up and staying in bed longer, just because. The t-shirt Clint wore underneath a soft-looking, brown leather jacket stretched too tightly across his massive chest, and his comfortably worn jeans accented his thighs and (Phil tried not to notice) crotch. 

Phil wanted to fan himself and lick the picture in equal measures, but he did neither, because he had better self-control than that. Honest. He could even look away any time he wanted. It was ridiculous, really, that just a picture of someone he’d once known could affect him so much. He did manage to force himself to put it down beside Barney’s plate, and he was mostly under control by the time Barney got back to the table. 

“Yeah.” Barney slid back into his seat and grinned at Phil. He could feel his face heating, and Barney made no effort to hide the laughter in his eyes. “He has that effect on a lot of people. Little asshole grew up pretty.”

“It was always clear that he would,” Phil said, mustering as much of his dignity as he could find. He wondered how many people were _lots_. He wondered if Clint had gone back to finding love or something like it whenever the opportunity arose. Phil wanted to bristle, but, given his own prolific past, he knew he had no room to complain. “So he’s at SHIELD, you said?”

Their server interrupted before Barney could answer, and Phil never did get to follow up and ask the question that really preyed on him: _where_ was Clint? And would Phil ever get to see him again? Would Clint even _want_ to see him?

Phil didn’t dare let himself think too hard about the question he had for himself: _why did it matter so much to him that he see Clint again?_ Eighteen years was a long time away, and Phil hadn’t exactly been waiting around for Clint. He’d spent the better part of his military career finding temporary companionship in whatever place he’d found himself. He hadn’t stayed in one place long enough to build a relationship, not really. And he hadn’t particularly felt the lack. What made the possibility of meeting Clint again cause his skin to tingle and his heart to beat a little faster? 

When he’d first enlisted, Phil had planned on going in for the minimum, getting out, and going to collect Clint from the circus. He would get them an apartment somewhere, set Clint up with a job while Phil was in class. They would have spent every night tangled in each other, holding tight to make up for their time apart. Somewhere along the way, Phil had realized he had lost Clint, truly and completely lost him. So Phil had regretfully turned away from that little dream of a future with Clint and signed himself up for a career with the military. He’d forgotten– nearly forgotten– that he’d once planned his entire future around Clint. So much so that he hadn’t even really considered the possibility of going looking once he’d gotten his discharge. Not _really_. Just...maybe wished a little. But eighteen years–

He forced himself to push it all down and focus only on Barney for the rest of the meal.

Changing topics to places they’d both visited and worked, they chatted their way through salads and diner steaks (cooked right, even, a luxury Phil hadn’t had in...more years than he cared to think about), and pie for dessert. There was a brief scuffle for the check, but Barney won with a playfully snarky reminder that Phil remained unemployed. And then Barney started to gather himself to leave. 

“We gotta do this again, if you stay in the area.” He slipped out a few bills for the tip and then stood. Phil stood, too, and Barney held out his arms for a hug. “If you _don’t_ stay around, you still gotta come over and see Afina soon. She’d love to have you. And meet the babies. Hell, we’ll invite Tabby and her girlfriend and Clint and have a whole family barbeque.”

Phil’s mouth ran dry, but he still managed to croak out a few appropriate words. 

“Sounds good, Barn.” Phil hugged him hard. He took a deep breath and felt it fill his lungs, and the world stabilized under his feet. Phil kept holding on, and Barney held on harder. “It’s been really good to see you.”

They pulled back, still holding one another by the arm and the shoulder. Finally Barney stepped away, and Phil made himself let go.

“Good to see you, too, Phil.” Barney shook his hand, and Phil felt paper. “It’s good to see you, too. Been too long since I found an old friend to make into a new one. No more being a stranger, yeah?”

As he walked away, Phil looked down to find himself holding the picture of Clint, his changeable blue-green eyes looking straight into Phil’s. He flipped the picture over and found two numbers scrawled on the back, both with local area codes. One of them was Barney’s. The other was labeled “Punkass Bitch”. 

As soon as he got back to his hotel, Phil sat in the too-short chair by the phone. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment before making up his mind. It was late, but he’d been assured that the office was fully staffed, twenty-four hours a day. Deciding he could be impulsive, just this once, he pulled Marcus’s card out of his jacket and dialed the number he’d been given after his first interview in DC. As soon as he was transferred to HR, he took one more deep breath and accepted the position he’d been offered with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. 

He thought about calling Barney right after, to tell him what he’d done, but he figured that would be a little too pushy. There would be time to get in touch after Phil got himself settled in.

 

*****

It was stupidly early in the morning when Clint got up. He’d stayed out too late the night before, knowing he had an eight a.m. meeting to go over his After Action Report, but the news he’d gotten had kept him making silent, excited toasts in his head and downing beers long after he should have been asleep. His phone rang as he was sliding his gel-coated hands through his hair, trying to get the perfect balance of perfectly styled and bed-head. He cursed, turned on the water with his elbow, rinsed one hand and flipped open his phone. He cursed again as water dripped across the screen. Barney’s barking laugh greeted him before he could say a word, let alone push the speakerphone button.

“Having problems, baby bro?”

“Yeah, fuck you.” Clint managed to get a couple of fingers wiped mostly dry on the towel from the floor and engaged the speaker. “Sorry I missed your call last night. Was out celebrating with a couple people from work. _They_ were all hyped about the end of that cock-up in Belarus. Which, it was great to get out of that. Alive and everything. But _I_ had something way more awesome to celebrate. I mean, they have the right to celebrate it, too, but they don’t know that yet.”

“So did you hear my–” Barney started, but Clint cut him off, tipping his head from side to side, trying to decide if he’d achieved sex-hair or if he’d gotten all the way to “junkyard dog with questionable habits and possibly mange.” 

“You’ll never _believe_ who SHIELD just scored.” Clint decided that whatever his hair said, it was the best declaration he could manage with generic brand gel and too much excitement running through his veins. “I mean, I’d _heard_ that Fury wanted him and that he was supposed to be retiring this year, but I didn’t think that he’d be coming _here_. There were rumors about his exploits with the Army…. I mean, _I_ always believed them, but I already knew he was snarky, sneaky bastard. Then Fury stopped by the bar and told us he’d– Oh, _God_ , Barn! I bet he’s still _hot._ I wonder if he’ll wear his uniform. I bet he’s _gorgeous_ in uniform. I wonder if he’s single. Shit, I wonder if he remembers me.”

“He’s got a little less hair,” Barney said when Clint finally ran out of breath and had to pause. “Looked pretty buff. As for hot or not, I’ll leave that determination to you. Guys aren’t really my thing. Oh, he looks like his nose got broken. Again. And yeah, he remembers you. For damn sure.”

“Wait...he...you… _WHAT?_ ” Clint snatched up his phone, turning off the speaker and slapping it against his ear, just to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding. “You _saw_ him? And you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s why I called you last night.” Barney laughed again, and Clint irrationally wanted to throw his phone. “And why I called you this morning. Had supper with him last night. Ran into him on his way out of an interview with the Bureau, and we met up for supper after I got out of the office. As you would have known, if you’d listened to your messages.”

“And you didn’t call me to, um...” Clint hated how small and plaintive he sounded. “I’d have...I wish I’d….”

“You’ve been in Belarus, and I didn’t know if you were back.” Barney hummed thoughtfully, and, somewhere in the background, a baby squawked indignantly. “Franie, stop taking the brontosaurus away from your brother! Plus I kinda wanted to feel him out before I turned your enthusiasm loose on him. He mentioned that your people were after him. Um, after I mentioned that you worked there.”

“Shit, Barney!” Clint told himself not to squeeze the phone. He’d white-knuckled a few of them to death already. “What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing!” Barney pulled the phone away from his face to bellow something about it being ten minutes until leaving time, and then he got back on the line. “I told him your story was yours to tell, and then I gave him your picture. That one of you in the leather jacket. I’ll need a new one to go in the frame on my desk, by the way. I told him he could keep it.”

“What’d...what’d he say?” Clint felt like his heart was about to crack his ribs, it began to beat so hard. And that was ridiculous: it’d been nearly twenty years since he’d last seen Phil. He _couldn’t_ have anything but nostalgia left. Besides, Barney said Phil was losing his hair and had broken his nose again. Maybe he was completely bald and ugly (Clint somehow couldn’t believe that, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was possible). “About...about me. Or the...the pic.”

“He didn’t say much of anything. Pretty sure he forgot I existed for a minute or three or sixty.” Barney chuckled again. “If he looks at you like that when he sees you in the office, try not to take him up on the offer until you’ve gotten at least one locked door between you and the rest of the world. And not in a room with surveillance. Get canned by SHIELD and you might get stuck working for the CIA.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Clint muttered. He grabbed the leather jacket he’d worn to the anniversary party, flinging it around his shoulders, and then he scooped up his helmet. “Well, I gotta get off to work. Tonight, you’re going to call me and give me every detail of supper last night.”

“It’s not like it was a _date_.” The line jangled with the clatter of Barney’s keys against his phone, and he leaned away to holler for the girls. After a rapid argument in Romany, he came back to the phone. “I gotta run. Talk to you tonight. Have a good day, baby brother.”

“You, too, Barn. Love you.”

The line disconnected, and Clint flipped the phone shut and slid it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He checked for his wallet and his badge, stopped to grab his sidearm from the locked case behind the front door, and swung his bowcase and quiver onto his shoulder. 

Phil Coulson, the object of Clint’s teenaged love and enough fantasies in the years following to make one helluva porno, was in town. He would be going to work for SHIELD. At HQ. Where Clint was currently assigned. He remembered Clint and, if Barney was right, still found Clint attractive. Also, if Clint had learned to read between the lines with Barney (and he had managed that by age two), Phil might still be exactly the kind of man to light up all of Clint’s buttons.

Fury had said that Phil would be joining SHIELD in two weeks, that he had some things to take care of before he came aboard. Just two short weeks. After Belarus, Clint didn’t stand too much chance of being sent back out immediately. He’d have to get through his initial debriefing, then his mandatory stand-down, and then the follow-up debriefing. If Clint could just avoid getting a mission for the three days after that, maybe he could talk HR into letting him give Phil the Official New Agent Tour. He checked his watch to make sure he’d have time to stop for the good donuts on the way to the office. 

HR would do _anything_ for the good donuts.

*****

Phil decided, during the three days it took for him to find an apartment, that he was _not_ adjusting well to civilian life. To be honest, he had no idea _how_ to adjust to civilian life. He’d never had to find his own place to live, bolt holes on mixed team ops aside. He’d never considered how much rent in and around DC would cost. And he had never, not even once, considered what would make a mattress an appealing purchase beyond “big enough to lie down” and “clean enough not to be terrifying.” 

He’d had several beds over the years that didn’t meet either qualification.

After the bed came clothes shopping. Phil had all of the one suit he wore to his interviews, plus three pairs of sweatpants, eight t-shirts, and one pair of jeans. He hit up a men’s clothing store to choose a couple of new suits, and he stumbled out with his credit card crying, but also with a promise to have all five that he found ready within the two weeks he had before he began his new job. He also had a bag of clothing that included several pairs of jeans that had made the sales kid in casual wear fall silent and stare at Phil’s ass. He’d maybe picked out a handful of shirts that he hoped hung on the edge of date night or dinner with a friend, just in case he found either someone to date or someone to become friends with. Next, he purchased a flight to Chicago and reserved a U-Haul to bring back the things he’d need for his new home.

He’d only been back there a couple of times, just long enough to drop things off and make sure his car wasn’t rusting under her primer. The very last time he’d been there, he’d finally gotten around to getting the car painted the sexy cherry red he and his dad had dreamt about when they’d started working on the car while Phil was in grade school. All he had of his mother and father was in that storage unit with the car, and he had a horrible suspicion that he might find mice or worse in a few of the old pieces of furniture. He should probably have just pitched it all and planned on buying new. Still, he’d made a habit of squirrelling away money for some unknown _What If_ , and he couldn’t seem to break himself of it. No need to spend money if anything left by his mother was still good. 

With two days to go before his flight, Phil headed back to the hotel he would consider home until he managed to get the mattress delivered to his new studio apartment. He fell onto the squeaking mattress, turned on the television, and forced himself not to flip over the picture of Clint immediately. His resolve lasted until the second commercial break.

Clint’s eyes, laughing in the picture, were so painfully familiar to him. Phil wondered if those eyes still looked lazy and blue in the morning, if they still sparked green when Clint’s temper flared. If they would still look at Phil with the kind of warmth they had nearly two decades before. 

And then Phil caught himself up short, again slapping the picture facedown on the nightstand. 

It wasn’t fair– to himself or to Clint– to put the weight of their past on the possibility of meeting again. For all Phil knew, Clint was married. _Barney hadn’t mentioned a wife for Clint, in talking about the barbeque_ , a traitorous voice whispered inside Phil’s head. Or involved with someone, at the very least. _Barney mentioned a girlfriend for Tabitha, but no one in relation to Clint_ , the same voice said, and Phil wished someone would strangle that voice before it drove him insane with _what ifs_. No matter what, though, their short time together had been so long ago that it meant nothing. Nothing at all. 

Maybe Clint had changed, had grown. Maybe he’d finally decided he was done with men. Maybe he’d become conceited or boorish, and Phil would find him impossible to be around. Maybe he’d become hardened by the years, and he no longer laughed as easily or loved as hard. 

There was that rumor…

Nine years before, in a briefing for an operation in a former Soviet country, there had been a mention of an assassin. Nothing was known about him, except that he _was_ in fact male; that much had been seen on the single surveillance photo ever captured of him. He used a bow and arrows and made seemingly impossible shots. That alone wasn’t exactly proof that it was Clint, but it had been enough to distract Phil for most of the rest of the meeting. He’d only gotten out of the mission that followed by his own quick thinking and passable Russian. 

He’d been lucky to have had Clint on the brain, really, since Clint had taught him all of the cursing and dirty jokes he’d ever learned in Russian. The dirty jokes had been what had finally kept him from being shot for a spy. 

Phil found himself picking the picture back up, looking at the scrunch of Clint’s nose, at the playful twinkle in his eyes, at the brightness of the smile on Clint’s face. He wished he could believe that the man in the picture was so very different than the boy in his own memory. But Clint didn’t _look_ that different; he still looked like the same goofball who would rather have fun than work, who worked so very hard at things he found fun. 

No, the thing Phil actually feared the most was not that Clint was in a relationship or that he was so different that Phil would no longer find him attractive. What Phil feared most was that _he_ had changed too much: that Clint would find Phil plain and old and far too serious.

Phil hoped that, even if Clint found him unattractive, that at least they could become friends again. If they even managed to meet up someday. 

With a frustrated sigh, he turned the picture back over on his nightstand, turned off the television, and went to bed at that point. It wasn’t worth worrying over. Besides, Phil was ready to find a new life for himself; he couldn’t do it if he spent all his time dwelling on the past.

*****

“What do you mean _you didn’t get his number!_ ” Clint realized he might be screaming, but he felt he could be excused. He’d decided, about fifteen minutes after he’d awakened on his fourth day of mandatory leave, that meeting Phil in the lobby of SHIELD, with all the spies and all the gossips, and– God help him– his own _ex-wife_ somewhere nearby– would be the worst possible reunion of all. “I really...One of us should...I mean, before he gets to…. _Barney!_ ”

Barney started laughing. Hard. 

“What?” Clint knew he sounded mulish and sullen; God knew he _felt_ mulish and stubborn. 

“You haven’t seen the guy in nearly, what, twenty years?” Barney sighed, a deep huff of great satisfaction, “and you still have a thing for him.”

 

“No!” Clint sat down hard on the edge of his couch, glad that he’d paid a little more and got the one with the thicker cushions. “I just...It’s not...Barney! No! I mean, it’s been eighteen years.”

“And you still have a thing.” Barney laughed again.

Clint did _not_ still have a thing. It had been eighteen damned years since Phil had climbed onto that bus and ridden away into the steely grey light of morning. After that...after that, Clint had lost everything. Everything he’d had left, which wasn’t much after all the losses he’d had in his early life. But Barney had gone away, and Afina with him. Then Buck had taken Clint away from Carson’s circus, away from all the friends he’d had there. And then Clint had run away from Buck, too, bleeding and bruised and guilty of taking a life. 

Eventually, Clint had been absorbed by SHIELD, where he’d found an organization and friends. Not too long after landing there, he’d found his brother and sister-in-law and then became an uncle, giving him more family than he’d ever had in his life. He’d gotten married, even though it hadn’t worked out in the end. He had a home that he loved, that he often shared with friends and family on evenings and weekends. But something remained missing. Clint saw everyone around him with those friends that they’d known since college, since high school, since they were kids. And he...had family. But there was a gap in his life, no bridge between his childhood and adulthood.

Wanting to build that bridge for himself was not...not the same as having a _thing_.

“Clint?” Barney sounded concerned.

“It’s not that!” Clint dragged a hand over his hair and down his face. He always got a little twitchy when he’d been stuck off work for too long. Apparently four days was his limit on this break. He’d call for permission to at least go into the training courses the next afternoon. “It’s just...He meant something. Before. And I _know_ that’s over. I mean, we were both kids back then. But...But Barney, I just...He was my best friend, too. I just hope we can...we can be friends again, ya know?”

“I know you’re full of shit, Clint.” Barney sighed again, softer, more understanding. It probably spoke to their codependency that Clint could read Barney’s sighs over the phone. He hoped it was just a normal brother thing, but nothing else in their life had ever been normal; why start now? “So what’s really going on?”

“It’s…” Clint swallowed and flung himself deeper into the couch. “Bobbi’s in town. For at least a month. She’s running some op with Blake, and they apparently have to do some joint training before they go.”

“Ah.” Barney hummed thoughtfully. “And you’re worried about Phil meeting your ex-wife and what?”

 _And what_. Clint wished he knew. If he knew, he could start building a plan to defuse whatever situation he thought might develop.

“Forget it. I just...I wondered if you’d gotten his number.” Clint scrubbed his hand through his hair again and pushed himself to his feet. He needed coffee, and then maybe he could get himself under control. “You go have a good day at work.”

“You should actually try to relax a little, little bro.” Barney chuckled again, and Clint had thoughts of reaching through the phone and punching him. Right in the bicep where it would leave that tender little bruise. “It’s all going to work out. It’s Phil. He hasn’t changed that much. You haven’t changed that much. Breathe, Clint. Just...breathe.”

Clint hung up without saying goodbye and walked to the kitchen to brood at the coffee pot while it slowly dripped. 

*****

Phil expected his quick trip to Chicago to be easy. He expected it to go smoothly. He figured it would take him a couple hours to get through his storage unit, find what he wanted, and then he could take a leisurely drive halfway across the country, stop a couple times, and maybe get caught up on a little bit of sleep. He figured entirely wrong.

The quick and easy trip turned into two days of grueling physical and emotional labor. There were memories hiding in every corner of his storage unit, tugging at his clothes like the tendrils of spidersilk and clogging his nostrils with the heavy layer of dust he stirred around. Every box, every bag, every dust-slipped piece of furniture– even the car parked at the front edge of the space– held too many emotional connections to a past Phil had spent eighteen years trying to shake loose. Remembering had just hurt too much, after he’d walked away from all his connections to the past. After he’d opened the door, he had to sit outside in the hot July sun, head between his knees, until the dizziness of too many memories finally passed. 

He pulled the cover off his car first, to make certain no mice had gotten into the interior. Her still-new coat of cherry red paint gleamed in the sunlight that slanted through the open roller door, and Phil smiled to himself as he ran a palm over her fender. The 1962 classic ‘Vette, Lola, had been stored and taken out and stored again a dozen times over the years he’d been enlisted. He wasn’t taking her home yet, but he would soon arrange garaging for her in DC, and then he’d fly up and drive her back. And maybe, just maybe, he could find someone to make the trip with him.

He resolutely did not think about who he half-wanted his traveling companion to be, or what he might like the trip to look like. He _couldn’t_ picture it. Phil didn’t _do_ relationships, not anymore. The last time he’d taken a trip with someone had been a planned week-long trip to Miami with a woman from the Air Force. That was back when Phil learned that _most people_ thought taking a trip with someone meant some kind of commitment, some kind of plan for the future. They’d broken it off halfway through their mutual leave, when Phil finally interrupted her monologue to explain that, no, he didn’t actually want marriage and children, a house in the suburbs, and two point five children.

That conversation effectively ended their cozy little sex-romp, and Phil found himself kicked out of the room.

He’d ended up renting a car to drive north, to Decatur, a tiny town in the Florida panhandle. He told himself he was only making the trip to look in on his aunt-by-marriage, the woman who had taken him after his mother died. Linda had been proven to be a horrible caretaker, cold, angry, laying down arbitrary rules, and breaking Phil’s belongings. Still, Phil felt he should keep an eye on the nursing home she’d moved into. He didn’t have to actually _see_ her to do it. He finished that chore within fifteen minutes of arriving in town, and then he’d wondered what to do with himself for the rest of the afternoon.

As always happened when Phil’s defenses were down, he found himself remembering the boy he’d loved there. He _knew_ Clint was gone, hadn’t been there in at least nine years by that point.Still, Phil had driven to the trailer he’d lived in with both Barton boys, just to see if it was still there. Years later, he still couldn’t decide if what he found counted as _gone_ or _still around_. The roof had caved in, all the windows had been broken out, and the front steps had rotted away under the constant humidity. Still, he’d stopped the car and sat on the trunk, staring at what was left, smoking a pack of cigarettes purchased just for that one occasion. Eventually, he got back in the car, swung it around in the gravel driveway further up the road and driven back by it and away, never looking back.

He didn’t need the place to remember the way he’d felt there. 

Phil patted Lola’s shiny hood one more time before carefully recovering her and turning to the remainder of his father’s vinyl album collection. He was instantly whisked away into other memories: his parents dancing in their kitchen; himself dancing in another kitchen, halfway across the country, with a boy who had laughing, changeable green eyes. Two of the three albums that Phil had taken with him hadn’t gone on into his life at the Army; Phil had left them with Clint. He briefly entertained calling Clint’s number, the one Barney had given him, and asking about them. But eighteen years and a lifetime was too long to expect Clint to still have those records. Clint had probably forgotten all about them, even if he hadn’t forgotten Phil himself. 

The next box Phil opened had the last few items of his mother’s clothing in it, and Phil’s memories drifted away deeper, going all the way back to his very youngest years. He cried over them, just a little bit, wondering if the hint of his mother’s perfume was really in his nose, or if it was just in his mind. He closed the box and gave up for the day.

The hotel had room service delivery, and Phil hoped the person that brought it couldn’t tell that he’d been crying. 

Morning found Phil back at the storage unit, determined to get through the rest of his mother’s things. He found a box of dishes, another of baking supplies, and they both went into the back of the little U-Haul. A metal bedframe that Phil couldn’t remember the origin of was added, as was the tiny kitchen table with it’s two spindly chairs. He looked over the couch and decided that it was both too dated and too large to fit in his new place, so he took just the one chair and decided that maybe he would recover it. When he had time.

After that, he gave up on his digging and took a break for lunch. He would finish loading things up for donation or the trash the next time he came back, when he would also get his car and turn in the key for the padlock. He could afford another few months of rent. 

He closed up, and went back to the hotel. A hot shower and a big meal didn’t settle him down a bit, so he checked out around midnight and started the long drive back to DC. He’d stop if he got tired. Otherwise, he could manage eleven more hours before he needed to sleep again. 

Probably.

*****

“Have you been robbed?” 

Barney’s voice cut through the feeling of panic that had built up inside Clint’s head, snapping him back to the present. Clint looked up from the pile of t-shirts that he’d been pawing through. He dumped the stack to the floor and straightened up from his crough in front of the dresser. 

“Shut up, Barn.” He tossed a friendly punch toward Barney’s arm that Barney easily caught and deflected. Clint’s next swing had a little more umph behind it, and Barney again deflected him easily. He decided not to try anymore. For the moment. “I just...lost something.”

“Was it your mind?” Barney braced his hands on his hips and looked around the room at the heaps of clothing that covered the floor, the nightstand drawers that had been pulled out and emptied on the bed, the tangled, former-contents of Clint’s closet. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you lost your mind.”

“No, I…” Clint reached up to scrub at the back of his neck with one hand. “I was trying to find a tie pin.”

“Uh. Huh.” Barney spun his keyring around his finger, and Clint realized that Barney had finally used his own key to let himself in. First time ever. Was that a victory or a defeat? Nosey-ass brothers... “That’s why you didn’t hear the door? Or your phone? Or me calling as I came into the apartment? Did you accidentally bring home some kind of tech or something?”

Clint thought about taking the easy out and going with Barney’s explanation. But, he wasn’t actually good at lying to his brother, no matter how good he’d gotten at lying for work. He took a deep breath, turned away to collect the heaps of his sweatpants off the floor and started refolding them to put them away. 

“It’stheonePhilgavemeformybirthday.” He snapped the last pair of pants out and then flipped them expertly over his arm a couple of times. “Iwannawearitforhisfirstday.”

“Once more, with a little more enunciation?”

Barney was always pulling out words like that, like being _educated_ made him smart. Clint ran that thought back through his brain and decided not to try it as an insult.

“I want to wear the tie pin that Phil gave me for my birthday.” He turned around and gave Barney his best winning smile. “You know, just to...I don’t know, show him I still have it or something.”

“You sure you still have it?” Barney looked around the room again, this time with one skeptical eyebrow lifted in a high arch. “Because it’s not looking good.”

Clint just flipped him off and started picking up t-shirts. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He tucked the clothing neatly into a drawer and then scooped up an armload of underwear. “I just have to remember where I put it. I think it’s with the cufflinks Bobbi gave me as a wedding present.”

“It’s just possible,” Barney said, going over to Clint’s bed and starting to sift through the bullet casings and nail grooming supplies from one of Clint’s nightstands, “that you are way too dedicated to hanging onto things from your past.”

“Shut up and start digging,” Clint snapped, mock-indignant. Barney laughed, and turned to the various boxes of trinkets and ticket stubs scattered across the top of Clint’s dresser.

An hour and a half later, the tie tack surfaced from a small wooden box on a shelf in Clint’s living room. The cufflinks were also in there, along with a necklace that held a slim gold locket. Clint refused to answer any questions about the locket, but he did rub his thumb gently across the face of the redhead inside before he snapped it shut and put it away.

“Now that _that’s_ out of the way,” Barney said, looking at the chaos they’d left in their wake as they dug through the entirety of Clint’s condo, “do you think we can maybe order a pizza or something before we start putting shit back away?”

Clint grumbled and rumbled his way to the kitchen for a menu, then grouched all the way back to the couch to flop down beside his brother. Truth was, it was all for show; Clint was too relieved to have redeveloped a relationship with his brother to bitch about, so he couldn’t _actually_ be upset. Four years back together still somehow felt fragile, after fourteen years apart. He might grumble, but he wasn’t actually annoyed with Barney.

For anything _other_ than failing to get Phil’s number, of course.

*****

Phil spent the week after getting back to DC from Chicago trying to get his apartment (such as it was) set up. He tucked the dishes into his cabinet; singular. Just the one in his micro-sized kitchen; his fridge was about a third the size of anything normal, and his cooking options consisted of two whole burners or an oven that _might_ fit two pie pans, if he didn’t mind the bottom pie getting scorched while the top one stayed raw in the middle. After getting his kitchen set up, he headed to a few thrift stores until he found a nightstand and a reading lamp to go on top of it. A big box store provided him with a little bookshelf, where he piled the few paperbacks he’d picked up since his last book purge (which he did about every three years), and he bought a filing cabinet to sort his paper messes _and_ double as a side table for his chair. He bought a few towels, thicker than the ratty messes he’d carried around the world a few times, a couple of washcloths, and several dishrags. Once his toiletries were stashed neatly in the tiny medicine cabinet in the bathroom, Phil considered himself moved in.

It was surprisingly depressing for him to look around the space. It was more, and more elaborate, than anything he’d lived in for the past eighteen years, but it retained all the impermanence of the various barracks and hotels he’d whisked through over time. Pictures for the walls, bookshelf, and nightstand would probably help, but Phil only had six pictures with him. He should have dug further into the things in his storage unit. Except that actually looking at the faces of his long-dead family would probably have prostrated him for a month.

What he did have with him included a snapshot of himself with a few members of his company; it only needed a frame to earn a place in his home. Another was a shot of himself with three members of the last SHIELD team he’d partnered with. In it, Phil’s lover at the time had his arm slung casually around Phil’s neck in a way that could almost be mistaken for just friendly, but only if someone didn’t know Felix well enough to see the smugness in his bright blue eyes. It was too close to the truth for Phil to feel comfortable with it out in the open, and since their admittedly very casual fling was over, Phil left it stuffed in a book he’d read once and wouldn’t read again. 

In the bottom of the small metal lockbox that Phil had stuffed into the back of his nightstand drawer, there were three pictures of Clint Barton. One of them, Phil had taken himself: a Polaroid shot of Clint tangled in the covers on a bed they’d shared at a beach house when they’d celebrated Clint’s birthday on the Gulf. The sheets and corner of the blanket kept Clint decent, but the drowsy smile on his face and the contented look in his eyes were anything but modest. That picture was _not_ appropriate to hang on a wall, especially since it had served mainly as spank-bank fodder. He wondered if it would be weird to do that now, knowing that he could run into Grown-up Clint at any moment. That was a puzzle for another day, though. Phil felt too fragile to even _look_ at that picture right then.

The other picture of Clint was simply a Polaroid snap Clint had taken after pressing his face close beside Phil’s and grinning brightly. In it, they were both clearly laughing about something, and Clint was slightly more in the picture than Phil. They’d taken two versions of the shot, to make sure they each had one to carry with them. Phil’s had lived in his bag for years, and he’d told anyone who had seen it that it was just him with his best friend from school. That _was_ honest, even if it was only part of the truth. Still, a high school best friend (let alone a high school boyfriend) was not the kind of thing he could put out after nearly two decades of no contact. That would just be weird. 

The last picture of Clint had been taken nearly three years after their last contact. A mutual friend of theirs, Tabitha (who was now apparently Barney’s sister-in-law), had clicked a picture of Clint at the end of a circus performance. Clint was bare-chested aside from the sequined straps of his quiver, covered in sweat and glitter, his only visible right ear pierced from lobe to the top curve and full of glittering earrings. Clint’s cheek was pressed against the face of the large palomino horse harnessed to match Clint’s tiny purple shorts, his deep purple armguard, and his quiver. Clint had labeled it “The Amazing Hawkeye and Coulson” and a mutual friend, now Barney’s sister-in-law, tucked it into an envelope with a very short note.

Phil had only gotten that picture out when he was guaranteed to be alone, had a door that locked, and would be uninterrupted for quite some time. He’d looked at Clint’s face in the picture and thought how much he’d loved that boy, once upon a time. He’d also thought about what it would have felt like, to crawl into Clint’s arms over and over again through the years. But only when easy sex and one night stands got too impersonal to satisfy him. He didn’t think he could ever get that picture out again, though; jerking off to that one would be too creepy, knowing that he and Clint really _could_ meet again. 

The other picture Phil had was the one given to him by Barney. Of Clint. As an incredibly gorgeous, fully adult man. Self-pleasuring to that one was absolutely out. Hanging it on his wall without actually having ever seen that version of Clint would be even creepier. Hanging it on the wall after seeing Clint again, after seeing in person that they’d both grown up and apart forever, would be creepiest of all.

Maybe Phil needed to invest in a few decent prints and a classic movie poster or two.

Maybe he just hadn’t learned the trick to having a real home and never would. 

Maybe he needed to go to to bed and quit being so damned maudlin.

*****

Operation Don’t Get a Mission and Badger Human Resources Into Letting Me Have Coulson First went off without a hitch. Also, Clint realized why no one ever let him name missions. No day in which you learned something new was wasted, right? Still, Clint felt like he’d lost four entire days, unable to concentrate, unable to sit still. His entire apartment had been cleaned top to bottom, but he was fairly certain large portions had been missed by his distracted dusting. The television had been on much of the time, but Clint couldn’t remember what shows he’d tried to watch.

He kept bouncing between shocked excitement and the confused lust of teenage desires grown into adult fantasies. One minute, he couldn’t _wait_ to see Phil, catch up on eighteen years of life, admit to his sporadic bursts of professional stalking, see if Phil still had the same deadpan sense of humor, the same beautiful eyes, the same sharp lip that begged to be sucked on. The next minute, he’d wonder if Phil still carried the same little spark of fondness that flickered behind Clint’s ribs, if he’d see Clint and wonder if they were still compatible. If Clint would see Phil and somehow just _know_ that they were. He spent five minutes on Sunday afternoon wondering if Phil would know him, if Phil would recognize him, if Phil even _really_ remembered him. 

And then he got over it. 

Phil would know Clint, he’d certainly remember him, and– ridiculous fantasies of re-meeting and falling madly back into love aside– they’d at least have enough to start rebuilding a friendship. It’d be nice to be friends with Phil again. According to Barney, Phil had gotten a little bit quieter, a little calmer, a little more self-assured. He still laughed at bad jokes and delivered probably intentional puns with only the tiniest quirk of a smile. He’d fulfilled all of Clint’s half-forgotten fantasies from twenty years before in the big and buff department, and Clint tried to picture Phil with less hair. He’d always had a nice forehead; Clint bet he looked good with more of it showing.

And then he remembered Phil’s freckles and had to sit down with a cold drink and think about Director Fury wearing a ballgown and waltzing with Agent Blake to calm himself down. The image had served him well over the years, but he still hadn’t quite forgiven Nick and Felix for the original sight. Unintentional drugging did strange things to some men.

With twelve hours left before he’d get some of his questions answered, Clint got in bed. He turned out the lights, flopped around a bit, turn the lamp back on and pulled out a book. Finished the book, turned out the lights. Flopped some more. 

Nine hours left until Phil. 

He got up for a snack, brushed his teeth, got back in bed. 

Seven hours to Phil, he decided to try a warm bath. 

Five and a half hours to Phil, and he climbed out of the now-cold bathwater, crawled back into bed, discovered the shampoo that he’d scrubbed into his hair before dozing off in the water, went _back_ to the shower, rinsed and repeated, dragged himself back to bed, threw his soapy pillow onto the floor, and _finally_ fell asleep.

Of course he slept through his alarm and ended up riding into DC eating a danish no-handed while styling his hair. He didn’t know why the elderly couple across from him gave him such dirty looks; hair and breakfast was _far_ from the strangest thing he’d seen on a train– and that was _not_ including things that came up for work. He wiped his hands on the napkin that’d come with his breakfast pastry, straightened his tie, and buttoned his vest. He hoped his pants weren’t wrinkling and leaned forward slightly to keep from smashing creases into the back of his jacket. He wondered what Phil would think of the suit. He wondered what everyone _else_ would think of the suit; Clint never wore a suit in the office. 

Forty-five minutes until Phil, Clint stepped through the door of HQ. He was a bundle of nervous anticipation and giddy excitement. The only thing better than making a new friend was getting back an old, old one. Even if that’s all they became to each other, Clint thought it a miracle that he was getting to see Phil again.

*****

Phil licked his lips and tried to casually check his reflection in the glass doors as he approached SHIELD headquarters. His tie was incrementally off-center, so he straightened it, straightened his shoulders, and sucked in a deep breath. He paused for only half a step before reaching the doors, and then he went in, hoping he was ready for whatever this new phase of his life would be.

Getting through security took all of his attention (the list of things he shouldn't do with his shiny new ID badge included at least three things he'd never imagined and two he'd never heard of), so it was nearly five minutes after entering the building before he managed to look up and take in the lobby. It soared five stories high, ground level overlooked by dozens of places to observe without being obvious, dozens of places to hide snipers. It was occupied by a bustling crowd of people in dark suits or darker tactical wear; it should have been intimidating. Instead, for the first time since his cab pulled away from the gate of his last base, Phil finally felt safe. He heaved a sigh of relief and drew his gaze down, looking for anyone who might be looking for him. He’d been promised a guided tour and thorough orientation before his official training was set to begin the next day.

Someone was waiting for him, all right, and Phil felt time stop as he first met a gaze that was both as familiar as his own reflection and foreign as a stranger. 

Phil couldn’t hear Clint’s voice say his name, but he saw Clint's teeth press lightly into his bottom lip and his tongue brush the tips of his top teeth. Even without sound, Phil couldn’t ignore the pull of his own name on those lips. He nearly stumbled as his feet started moving before he’d even thought to tell them to walk. Clint dropped his armload of papers the second Phil moved. Their arms came up in sync, reaching out for each other, and Phil had only a second to remind himself that it was no different than hugging Barney at dinner that night before he was wrapped in Clint’s embrace.

It was...odd. Hugging Clint. For one thing, their heights had traded places. Clint had shot up until he towered a good four inches above Phil even after Phil’s last growth spurt. His shoulders and arms, already well-developed in his teens, had filled out until Phil felt entirely enveloped as he pressed close to Clint’s now-massive chest. Phil felt like his heart was trying to hammer free from his rib cage, but he could feel the flutter of Clint’s heartbeat against the outside of his ribs, echoing the pace of his own.

“Phil.” Clint whispered his name, and Phil sniffed hard, not certain if the pressure in his throat was a laugh or a cry trying to escape. “Holy shit, Phil. I can’t believe…”

Phil closed his eyes and tucked his face into the side of Clint’s neck, squeezing hard around Clint’s ribs, shifting one arm lower to avoid pressing the hard lump of a gun in a shoulder holster into Clint’s side. He felt Clint’s face press into his own shoulder and breathing got even more difficult from the tightness of Clint’s grip. 

“It’s you,” Phil mumbled into the shoulder of Clint’s jacket. In just a moment he would pull back to _see_ the man Clint had become, but, for just a little bit longer, he held on, trying to convince himself it was real. That he was honestly and in real life holding and being held by the object of some of his happiest memories, some of his most private fantasies, his most wistful, utterly impossible wishes.

They did manage to pull back, eventually, but Clint’s hands stayed firmly on Phil’s shoulders, holding him close to look him over carefully. Phil was just as thorough in his own examination of the man before him. Clint’s body had grown and his hair had been cut, but his eyes...they were so beautifully familiar, maybe even more so with the tear-glossing and the red lids. Phil was certain his own eyes weren’t any better, so he didn’t mention it. 

“That’s not usually part of the orientation tour,” Clint said earnestly, and Phil finally felt the lump in his throat resolve into laughter. 

Clint ducked his head sheepishly– a gesture Phil had seen a thousand times, could still conjure perfectly in dreams– and then he started to snicker as well. They pulled each other in for one more quick hug, complete with manly backslapping, and then they finally stepped apart, the power of the past breaking long enough for them to get a look at the _now_ of each other.

Clint was far more gorgeous in real life than he’d been in the picture. His hair was significantly shorter than the last time they’d been together, gelled into messy spikes on top of his head that made Phil’s fingers itch to poke at them. He’d left off the earrings, but Phil could still see the holes in his lobes and fine marks up the cartilage that might be scars or might still be open to place the handful of hoops he’d apparently worn on stage. The inky black suit he wore had been cut to show off the spread of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist, and Phil wanted to reach out and run a hand along that line; surely no one in real life had that kind of definition. Phil had only seen in it comic books in the past. There also appeared to be a hint of extra fullness beneath his arm to cover his holster, and _that_ had no reason at all to make Phil’s belly heat. 

After all, he’d seen to it that his own suits were tailored the same way.

Best of all, though, were Clint’s bright eyes, grey and cool and sparkling in the morning light streaming through the glass front of the building. The silver stripes of his tie matched them exactly, and Phil forced himself to stare at the knot at Clint’s throat for a moment, trying to keep himself from blushing. His gaze traveled down along the tie, and then he froze again, stunned.

Neatly securing the tail of the tie, placed precisely in the center, was a small silver arrow. Phil knew that arrow. He’d _chosen_ that arrow. When he’d given it to Clint for his sixteenth birthday, it had adorned the collar of Clint’s denim jacket. That little piece of silver, no longer on a scruffy teen, being worn properly on the silken tie of a very _adult_ -looking man, finally convinced Phil that this wasn’t just a dream.

He was really there. With Clint Barton. 

He finally felt _home_.


	2. Everybody Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now they're here, together. So...how do they move forward?
> 
> Clint really hopes it's together.
> 
> Phil hopes for a lot of things. 
> 
> Now if they can just figure out to make their hopes known to each other...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Everybody knows that you love me baby_  
>  Everybody knows that you really do  
> Everybody knows that you've been faithful  
> Ah, give or take a night or two 
> 
> \- Leonard Cohen, Everybody Knows

Standing in the middle of the foyer at SHIELD’s HQ, Clint found all the sounds of a regular busy morning at work faded away behind the quiet sounds of Phil’s hitching breaths as they hugged each other tightly. Clint held his own breath to hear those sounds, feel the warmth of Phil’s breath against his neck and jaw. He squeezed with all the fervency and relief he felt, and he thought he could feel the same radiating back out of Phil’s very pores. They had probably held on a little too long, for a public place, but Clint decided that his coworkers could go to Hell; he was busy greeting and old...friend. Slowly, carefully, Clint pushed Phil away, finally wanting to see him, really look him over, see if he could still see the traces of the boy he’d known better than he used to know himself. He couldn’t bring himself to let go entirely, though, hands latching onto Phil’s shoulders, as if letting go would let Phil vanish in a cloud, the way he sometimes did in Clint’s misty, half-forgotten dreams.

“That’s not usually part of the orientation,” Clint said, mouth shifting into high gear before his brain had disengaged the brakes. Phil’s eyebrows went up, and then they were laughing easily together before stepping back in for one more quick hug, both of them slapping shoulders a bit, as if they could play off their previous intensity. Finally Clint stepped back and gave Phil one more, quick but thorough, once-over.

“You look…” Clint trailed off, not sure where he could go with the sentence. Besides, his voice had come out too rough, too raw. He cleared his throat, reaching up to grab the back of his neck. “You look fantastic.” He tried to bite back the next words, but they escaped in spite of himself. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Phil was so _beautiful_. His hair had receded just a little, but that only highlighted the delicate lines of his forehead and temples. His lips… _God_ , they were the same. The _exact_ same. Clint’s breath hitched as he was hit with a visceral memory of the feeling of the swoop of Phil’s bottom lip against his own mouth. He needed to look away from Phil’s mouth _right now_ , or he was going to have a serious problem keeping his mouth to himself. But then Phil smiled at him, sweet and small, and achingly familiar, and Clint couldn’t have dragged his eyes off of Phil for an explosion. Phil turned pink and looked down, then he cleared his own throat and pointed at the pages that had scattered across the floor when Clint had reached for him.

“You dropped something.” 

The direct understatement was so _Phil_ that Clint blinked at him and laughed, maybe a little hysterically, as something in the back of his head started to whisper at him. He couldn’t tell what it was saying yet, and he tried to turn it off, sure it wasn’t the time to let his instincts loose. It had been eighteen years, and Clint couldn’t just grab the guy again and hold onto him forever. Two hugs would have to suffice. Phil laughed too, shoulders sinking an inch as tension visibly bled out of his body, smoothing lines in his forehead. Clint’s heart gave another mighty thump behind his ribs, and he lost himself in staring at Phil’s face again, cataloguing all things that had remained the same. 

“Clint?” Phil’s voice cut through the dreamy haze in Clint’s brain, and Clint shook himself lightly, pulling himself back to the present. Phil gave him a teasing grin. “Or should I call you Agent Barton?”

“Um…” 

No. No, Phil should never call him that. Especially with the note of pride in his voice. Clint wasn’t sure the leftover bits of his own teenage self could stand to hear that without melting into a puddle right there in the lobby. All those years ago, for months after after Phil had left, Clint had spent the lonely nights reminding himself of all the things Phil had said to him– all the praise and love and reminders that Clint was _worthy_ of praise and love– trying to keep from throwing himself into meaningless sex that would have filled a night but left his heart emptier than ever. Later, when Clint had taken to killing for a living, he’d whispered some of those things to himself, wondering if they were still true, in spite of all the blood on his hands. And, after his divorce not so long before Phil’s reappearance, Clint had reminded himself that someone _had_ loved him once, loved him enough to not _want_ to leave, even though he’d had to in the end. Eighteen years on, Clint finally understood both why Phil had left and how much it must have cost him to go.

Hearing admiration and respect in Phil’s just-deeper adult voice was more than Clint could be expected to handle without confessing to just how much Phil’s past respect had kept Clint together through the years. And _that_ would be embarrassing to start spouting on their first re-meeting. Clint shook off his momentary daze and swallowed hard.

“Just Clint is, um, is fine.” He smiled at Phil again, hoping it didn't look as weird and manic as it felt. Then he blinked and looked down, suddenly remembering the mess he’d made of Phil’s papers. He dropped to a crouch, trying to shuffle things back into order, and, after a moment, Phil squatted beside him. That squat made Phil's thighs do amazing things inside his slacks. 

“Here, _Just Clint,_ ” Phil teased, eyes impossibly blue in the morning sun streaming through the windows, and Clint nearly swallowed his own tongue. He forced his gaze down to the papers scattered across the floor, focusing on breathing steadily to avoid the awkward thing that was trying to happen between his own legs.

It would be a particularly terrible thing to have happen upon the first time seeing Phil in eighteen years. Maybe Phil wasn’t into guys anymore. Maybe he had a significant other (Barney didn’t think so, but Barney hadn’t even gotten Phil’s number for himself _or_ Clint, so he was clearly not trustworthy). Maybe Clint had gotten too tall or too scarred up, or maybe Phil just wasn’t into blondes.

And _none of that mattered anyway_ , Clint reminded himself. They were now coworkers and– maybe, with a little bit of luck– they could be old friends made new friends. Clint knew better than to get a boner at a friend. At least, in front of that friend. He mentally told his libido to behave itself and tried to refocus on doing his job.

“So, ah,” Clint half-straightened and waved a handful of papers in Phil’s direction. “These are yours. Intake stuff. Papers to fill out. More papers to fill out. _More_ papers to fill out. Info on where to find info in the handbook, which we’ll pick up during the tour. It’s too big to carry around all day. Information on choosing your training courses. Oh. And a personnel file with contact info for the team that’s supposed to help you get situated. I had to beg to get on that list and to have the honor of showing you around. I...I hope that’s okay?”

Clint finally ran out of words, much to his own relief, and managed to look up at Phil. Phil’s cheeks had gone an inexplicably cute shade of pink, and his gaze was unfocused, aimed somewhere past Clint’s left ear. In response, Clint felt his own face heat up, probably just as pink as Phil’s ears were starting to be. Once before, he’d seen Phil go on the fritz that way. They’d had sex that night, for the first time. And Clint _really_ needed to stop remembering things like that.. 

Phil swallowed a couple of times and then he blinked several times, clearly trying to pull himself back to the present. He met Clint’s eyes firmly, lips curling up at the edges. The little smile crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that was both wonderfully familiar and wonderfully different. New lines tracked along the crinkles, and Clint realized that Phil, whatever else had happened to him, had spent plenty of time smiling during their time apart. That thought warmed him to his toes, and he clutched the papers harder to keep from pulling Phil into another, celebratory hug.

“That’s...that’s really kind of you. It’ll be nice to have a familiar face show me around.” Phil nodded to the papers, smile shifting to an inquisitive moue. “Is that where we start, then?”

It took Clint too long to answer, shocked into stillness by the familiarity of that pout on Phil’s lips. He had to remind himself again– firmly– that eighteen _entire_ years had passed since he’d last seen that look and that he no longer had permission to kiss it away. The little whisper in Clint’s mind grew louder, and it seemed to be asking why it was such a bad idea to ask for that permission back. Clint wished he could throttle his screwy conscience or whatever it was that so often seemed to make bad ideas sound good.

“If you want to,” Clint said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried again. “If you’d like, we could go get coffee from the good breakroom and then hit your office to get some of this done. It’ll take more than a single session today, so we’ll do the tour in pieces around finishing it all.”

“Sounds good,” Phil answered, smiling again, and the sweetness of it stole Clint’s breath. 

He reminded himself that he couldn’t kiss _that_ look, either and turned away.

“Alrighty, then.” He jerked his head in the direction of the elevators. “Follow me, and we’ll get your retina scan set up first.”

*****

In the elevator, Clint gestured to a panel at one side and told Phil that it would take his retinal scans.

“We’ll get the rest of your bioprints in one of the labs this afternoon.” Clint gave a voiceprint code to begin the process and then leaned back in the corner, arms folded around the papers, grinning brightly. “You’re gonna love this.”

Phil always found technology fascinating, and the SHIELD retinal scanners were just plain _cool_. He had to look in one place, look there when a bright light shone in his eyes, keep looking there when the lights went out entirely. He had to look up, look down, glance in and look away quickly. Clint had to keep reminding him where his eyes were supposed to be, though. It was hard to concentrate on where he was _supposed_ to be looking with Clint Barton– gorgeous, fully grown Clint Barton– standing beside him, smiling at him like he still somehow made Clint happy. Phil’s eyes kept searching out Clint’s face in the flashes of light, trying to memorize the all-new, completely familiar contours of it. Because he couldn’t control his gaze, the machine beeped angrily at him at regular intervals, and Phil dragged his wayward eyes back to the little camera every time, a blush burning hot on the back of his neck.

Their years apart showed on both of them, Phil knew. He was painfully aware that those years weighed on him more than they did Clint, outwardly, at least. Clint’s face, always boyish and cute, still looked years younger than his actual age, even without the baby fat he’d still worn around his jaw and neck when they’d last seen each other. Clint’s hair was still thick and golden, and Phil wished he could have a good excuse to touch it, find out if it was still as soft as his memory made it out to be. When Clint had begun to stand from collecting his dropped papers, his jacket had ridden up just enough to show a spare gun tucked into his waistband, just above the even-more-delectable-than-before curve of Clint’s ass.

It was probably a flaw in Phil's character that he found armed men attractive, but eighteen years around muscular biceps and weapons was bound to have had _some_ kind of effect eventually. Seeing Clint armed both with a mostly invisible shoulder holster and a spare made Phil think of Clint in action in the field. His brain shorted out a bit at that point. He tried to imagine what jobs Clint did on a regular basis, if he had to work to get put on the meet-and-greet team, and if his usual work required a side-arm _and_ a backup. 

Finally, Phil managed to keep his eyes off of Clint’s face (and body) long enough for the scanning process to finish, and the elevator dinged gently and vibrated into movement, jerking Phil’s thoughts off of Clint acting like an action hero and back to the safer realm of exploring his new workplace.

“And we’re off,” Clint announced, unnecessarily but still bright and happy. “First stop coffee, then off to wear your hand out.”

Phil choked and coughed, hit firmly in the gut and groin by an image of what he used to do with Clint to wear his hand out. Clint’s face flashed crimson, and he stuttered as he tried to backtrack. 

 

“Signing, I mean.” Clint waved the top half of the stack of papers with his free hand. “Your name. Signing your name. On these. Not. Um. Yeah.”

Phil got his breath back and dissolved into helpless laughter. After a moment’s pause, Clint leaned against the wall beside him, bumping their shoulders together and laughing himself breathless as well. 

“Just wait’ll we get to the forms on sexual harassment,” Clint managed to choke out between snickers, “then you’ll know how much trouble you can get me in for that one.”

Phil knew he’d have to get over the urge to superimpose Younger Clint’s face on this man who was, in practicality if not actuality, a stranger. He’d have to learn to look at Agent Barton as himself and not just Clint. But maybe that could wait until after Phil’s first day of work. Until _after_ Phil got used to the idea that the boy he still sometimes dreamed about had grown up into this man. After he got used to the idea that Clint saw him as a grown man, too.

Still, standing there in the elevator and laughing with their shoulders brushing for the first time in longer than Phil cared to think about, he felt like a total person. Here was one person he didn’t have to hide part of himself from. Clint already knew all of Phil’s earliest secrets, and he didn’t seem terribly concerned that any of Phil’s new secrets would get in the way of building a new friendship between them. It was appealing to contemplate, having an old friend become a new one again. He chuckled himself into silence and watched Clint for the rest of the ride to the sixth floor, drinking in the play of laughter and the open friendliness across Clint’s face.

Yeah, he was looking forward to getting to know the older version of Clint. He had already seen enough to know Clint was still someone he could get along with just fine.

The coffeemakers– industrial sized and smelling of something better than the usual government-option cheapie grounds– were impressive both in their quantity and quality. Whatever person was responsible for ordering cups– three sizes ranging from _basic enormous_ to _a bucket suitable for serving twelve_ – deserved a Medal of Honor, in Phil’s considered opinion. Clint gave Phil a furtive look before grabbing two of the biggest cups and pouring. He handed one to Phil and then turned back to pour in an unhealthy amount of sugar into his own and grab a bottle out of milk from a mini fridge to top it off. A sense of deja vu washed over Phil like a homecoming, and he quickly took a too-hot gulp of his black coffee to hide his feelings. 

_If Clint still took his coffee the same way, and correctly guessed that Phil did, too, what other ways would they still fit together?_

Phil forced himself not to look at Clint’s shoulders or ass or thighs as he thought it, which required him to turn around and face out the door, so he missed Clint stepping close to his shoulder and saying, unexpectedly, “Black still okay?” 

Phil nearly jumped out of his skin. Clint patted his arm gently in apology and led the way down the hall toward the labyrinth that held all the ops offices, meeting rooms, and command centers. His running commentary on memorable moments for other staff members and himself on recent operations and missions nearly managed to distract Phil from the stirring in his memories and his heart.

*****

SHIELD’s paperwork was often grueling. At least, the stuff that agents had to fill out themselves. Most of the mission reports were filed verbally and then written up by analysts and other paperwork nerds who both knew what they were doing and didn’t get the urge to stab themselves in the eye midway through a document. Well, maybe they did, but they were usually not armed, and therefore their eyes remained undamaged. 

Clint had heard a rumor that was how Fury lost his eye and why they had so many actual paperpushers around the place. He doubted it was true. Still, the papercorps were deeply beloved by all field active agents and finding one that could plow through one’s own verbal shorthand was tantamount to finding true love. Personal lives and families were jealously guarded secrets around HQ and other bases, but having found a paperwork buddy and form conquests were shouted from the rooftops and bragged about in breakrooms and safehouses from all around the world. Without names attached, of course: no one wanted to risk their paperpusher being sniped.

Phil did better than most at getting through the five bazillion forms through the morning, and Clint enjoyed the chance to watch Phil’s face as he wrote and typed and wrote some more. They took two more breaks to get coffee, and then Clint had gone to get Phil one last cup while he finished off his personnel file. On the way back into Phil’s closet of a shared office, Clint stopped in the door, hands warmed by the paper cups and heart warmed by the sight of Phil Coulson, in the flesh, even more handsome than Clint could have hoped. Phil signed the bottom a page with a flourish and looked up, the corner of his lips lifting in a soft smile.

“I think drinking that will probably kill me,” he said, nodding to the cups Clint carried. “I’m pretty much equal parts blurry words and caffeine right now.”

“Lunchtime?” Clint cocked his head and leaned against the doorframe. He wanted to go in and sit on the edge of Phil’s desk, but the owner of the other desk in the room could show up at any moment, and Clint didn’t want anyone thinking he was sexually harassing the new guy. “The cafeteria here actually does pretty well for us. The nutritionists hire chefs and the upper levels justify it by quoting savings on healthcare.”

Phil laughed and climbed to his feet, dropping the pen and collecting the keyring that waited beside him. 

“Then take me to this healthy food before I starve to death.” 

Clint set both cups on the edge of Phil’s desk and stepped into the hall ahead of Phil. He had to force himself to put his hands in his pockets while Phil locked the door; no matter how tense Phil looked, the first day was probably a _bit_ too soon to give a neck massage. To distract himself from wanting to touch, Clint got Phil talking about his last posting, and that conversation carried them through the line and safely to a table for two in the corner.

That, of course, was when Clint’s usual bad luck reasserted itself. Two tray-laden agents paused by their table, one of them speaking before Clint could drag his eyes off of Phil to see who they were.

“Hello, Clint.” The voice was as familiar as Phil’s in Clint’s mind. That voice had always made Clint’s libido shiver, but, for some reason the tingle it sent down his spine in this setting felt more like dread than pleasure. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Oh, hey, Bobbi.” Clint looked up into the bright blue eyes of his ex-wife; her current work partner stood just behind her, clearly absorbed in the conversation he was having on his cell. Clint aimed a smile at both of them, his face tight and awkward. Felix Blake, her partner, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. “Um, yeah. This is fresh meat.” 

Clint didn’t facepalm, but it was a near thing. As jokes went, that one hand gone nowhere, and as a Freudian slip it was simply untrue. But _old meat_ sounded kinda...gross, and no one needed to be thinking about Phil and meat in the same sentence right then. Bobbi raised one perfectly curved eyebrow in disgust, and he winced. “I mean a new agent.”

“Hello, new agent.” Bobbi had clearly decided to let him off the hook for once.

Clint turned back to Phil, gesturing between the two of them. “Bobbi Morse, Phil Coulson. He’s coming to us from the Rangers. He’s my…, um, one of Fury’s.” 

_Not the time to bring up their shared history._

“That’s right.” Phil, showing off the good manners that Clint had nearly forgotten were a part of him as much as his blue, blue eyes, stood up and held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Morse.”

Blake stepped around Bobbi, a smile lighting up his usually dour face as he folded his phone and stowed it in his pocket.

“Well, well, well. Phillip J. Coulson.” Blake shot a quick look at Clint and then clearly forgot him in favor of Phil. Clint didn’t blame him, looking at the spread of Phil’s shoulders and the sparkle to his eyes. “When the hell did you get here?”

“Felix!” 

Phil reached out to take Blake’s offered handshake. The corner of Phil’s lips curled up, just barely, a quirk of expression that Clint had never seen before. On anyone else, Clint would have called it a smug look, but Clint knew Phil’s smug face, and that one wasn’t it. At least, it _hadn’t_ been it, not before. Still, eighteen years was a long time; Phil had probably learned all kinds of new expressions Clint had never seen before. Clint wasn’t sure if he found the idea of no longer knowing Phil’s face as well as he once did deeply unsettling or an exciting new challenge. He leaned back in his chair to watch what Phil did next.

“I didn’t know you were in DC!” Phil finally released Felix’s hand, but he didn’t move back into his chair. “How’ve you been? Gosh, it’s been, what, a year since Peru?”

“Nearly two.” Blake leaned his hip against the edge of the table, putting his body firmly between Clint and Phil. Clint did _not_ reach out to shove him aside, but only because Clint had excellent self-control and no _reason_ for the weird almost-jealousy that burned through him. 

Phil could have friends. Of _course_ he could. He had an entire eighteen years of life that Clint knew nothing about except that it had started with him going to Ecuador and eventually led to him working joint ops with every overseas focused alphabet agency Clint could think of. But there was something about Blake’s body language, the way he seemed to think he could just step into Phil’s space, into _Clint_ and Phil’s space, that raised Clint’s hackles. Still, it had been eighteen years since Clint could call Phil anything like his own. And, as Clint hadn’t even asked Phil out for dinner or anything, it wasn’t like he could go peeing on Phil’s leg, metaphorically. 

Five o’clock really needed to hurry up, as Clint didn’t believe in asking out coworkers while they were both on the clock.

…

…

...

_Whoa._

Clint wanted to ask Phil out to dinner. Real dinner. Like a real date. None of that _let’s have coffee sometime_ bullshit. No _want to get drinks tonight_ kind of a hookup thing. And just where had _that_ idea come from? Clint hadn’t been thinking of making a move, not really; he’d just been happy to see Phil again. It was good to know Phil was still alive, that he was happy and healthy and...and employed. Or something. 

( _Employed. Right, Barton,_ that’s _what you’ve been thinking since you saw his eyes and his jaw and his shoulders and his...everything_.)

Still, Clint didn’t want to argue with himself. He _was_ going to make a move. And he was going to make it _right_

“So who is he?” Bobbi dropped onto the chair beside Clint and crossed her long legs, pencil skirt riding up another inch. Clint didn’t even look at her knees, too busy watching Phil glance away from Blake, eyelashes briefly lowering over his eyes. Bobbi poked Clint’s bicep with one finger to get his attention back on her. “You obviously know him from somewhere.”

“High school.” Clint licked his lips and cleared his throat, watching Phil’s face light up as he talked to Blake about something that had apparently happened on a mission they worked together in Peru. He wasn’t listening to the words, but he couldn’t look away from Phil’s expression, that little curl of a knowing smile to his lips. Why hadn’t _Clint_ gotten that look yet? “We were...we knew each other back then. Um, in high school. Florida.”

“Wait a minute.” Bobbi poked Clint’s arm again, and Clint really wished she’d stop; it kept distracting him from counting the constellations in Phil’s freckles. “Coulson? Like Coulson’s Apple Pie Coulson? _That_ Coulson? I figured he was just something you and your brother made up. Like mutant strong men and alien snake charmers. Stories to pass the time or something.”

Oh yes, Clint had told Bobbi a little bit about Phil– not the x-rated bits, of course; Clint wasn’t one to kiss and tell. But she’d known he had a friend that, filtered through the lens of Clint’s previously unloved childhood, had meant _everything_ to him. He had told her about the way Phil had stuck by him, even when it harmed his social standing to do it. He’d told her about finally loving himself because Phil had managed to convince him he ought to. Barney had been the one to tell her about the pie, though, at their first and only Thanksgiving while married. 

Bobbi’s family had insisted the Bartons join them at a restaurant. Clint had tried to talk her out of it, talk her into going with him to Barney and Afina’s. _Restaurants aren’t for family occasions, Bobs._ Afina and the girls had been very polite and gracious, and Barney had too, until dessert. And then he’d started on his Thanksgivings Past reminiscences, managing to sound polite and conversational to anyone that didn’t know Barton passive-aggression. 

Sadly, Bobbi did know it, and she had taken it quite personally.

To be fair to Barney, the pies had been definitely substandard; if Barney hadn’t brought up Phil’s apple pie then, Clint might have, just because he couldn’t eat apple pie without remembering. Accidentally leaving Bobbi behind in the present, he’d joined Barney and Afina in their laughter over that long-ago Thanksgiving, when turkey loaf had seemed a suitable roasted bird substitute and his family had consisted of his brother, Afina and her two younger sisters, and one boy who was just as lost and alone and sad as the rest of them. They’d moved onto memories of the following Christmas and their purloined Christmas tree before the meal was over, and the Bartons had all been laughing hard enough to cry while the Morse Clan had looked on in something resembling horror.

Clint blinked away the memories, his focus solidifying around _now_ and _Phil_ , and _freckles_ and looked up at Bobbi. His face relaxed into an actual smile. Maybe Coulson Constellation Counting should be introduced to the Handling Job-Related Stress seminar next spring. Maybe he should just tell everyone about stealing his brother’s condoms to hang on the Christmas tree and let it destress the entire building. Still, Bobbi was waiting for an answer from him and starting to get that narrow-lipped pouty look that meant her patience was wearing thin.

“Nope. No, Coulson’s real.” He glanced back at Phil: definitely real. Or Clint was having the _very best_ hallucination of his life. But Clint hadn’t been kicked in the head recently. And he had no other signs of intoxication, so SHIELD-experimentation with the fun drugs was unlikely (besides, those were all unfounded rumors; Clint himself had started several of them). Definitely real then. “And so were the other two.”

“I’ll believe you on the Coulson kid front, then. I’m reserving judgement on the rest of them, though.” Bobbi laughed and leaned forward to kiss Clint’s cheek. Clint glanced quickly up at Phil, but his eyes were still fixed on Blake’s face, and he hadn’t noticed what Bobbi had done. She turned back to Blake and interrupted his overt ogling of Phil; Clint decided she was forgiven for the cold shoulder she’d given him for the several days following that Thanksgiving.

“Nice to meet you, Agent Coulson. I hope we’ll get a chance to talk more later.” She poked Blake in the arm, and Clint winced in sympathy. “Come on, Blake. Let’s go finish picking our team.”

Clint watched Phil watch Blake walk away. Or maybe he was watching Bobbi; Lord knew, watching her leave was a reward in itself. Usually Clint would be right there staring at her back, too. Somehow, though, her rear lost a lot of appeal with Phil's freckles to study. 

“I didn't know Felix was in DC.” Phil smiled at Clint, looking just a little wistful. “Maybe if I'd known how many people I knew we here, I'd have taken my out three years ago.”

“That would’ve been a pity.” Clint leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and flexing a little. “I was still in New York three years ago, so I wouldn’t have been here to, ya know, show you around.” Clint wondered if his face looked as hot as it felt; he hadn’t meant for that to slip out. He quickly changed took the conversation one step sideways. “I’d still like to get back up there, though. Someday.”

“I would like to do that, too,” Phil mused. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a second, then went on without even swallowing; Clint couldn’t decide if Phil had simply lost all his table manners in the Army (he’d heard rumors about the Army) or if Clint just triggered Phil’s comfort level to their previous depths of teenage boy-dom where no manners were required when it was just the two of them. “Still have family up there. Pseudo family. As family as it gets.” He swallowed. “Do you remember me talking about my Aunt Nia?”

“I remember her,” Clint smiled, feeling himself lighting up at the memory. “She sent me that excellent purple sweater for Christmas!” He also remembered how Phil had kept stroking his fingers along Clint’s biceps when he wore that sweater, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. 

“She’s still up there.” Phil shrugged, one-shouldered and took another bite. “Her son’s in DC, too, though.”

There was a long pause, and Phil took another bite of his sandwich and chewed hard, staring at his plate for a minute. His eyebrows squinched together in a way that Clint suddenly remembered was Phil’s _I need a minute to figure out what I’m allowed to say_. 

“And he’s...well, I have another... a friend. A really old friend. Here in DC. Umm, too.” Phil huffed a laugh. His free hand fidgeted with his napkin. “Nick Fury, Jr.” 

Clint stared at him, sandwich hanging limply in the air two inches from his face. ”So now that it’s come up, how _do_ you know him?”

“ _That_ story is...well, it was a long time ago. Possibly classified now,” Phil said, shooting Clint a sudden impish grin that took Clint’s breath away with the familiarity of it: Phil admitting there was more to the story, and that Clint might be lucky enough to hear it someday. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Contrary to rumor, Fury was neither grown in a lab nor programed. And his mother is _way_ more terrifying than he is.”

“Well, _damn!_ ” Clint dropped his sandwich back on the plate. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Phil’s mischievous expression “No wonder he was so anxious to get you to come in after you retired. He talked about wanting you aboard since...God! Since he recruited me!”

“Oh. So you knew...” Phil’s sandwich slipped out of his hands, collapsing as it hit his plate. The lunchmeat headed north, while the tomatoes and lettuce made a break toward the southwest. Clint stared at it, feeling Phil stare at him but too afraid of what he might show to Phil or see from him to look up. “You...you’ve known where I was for…”

Clint shook his head, hard.

“No! God, no, Phil. If I’d known...like really _known_...” He cut himself off and shot his hand across the table to grip Phil’s wrist tightly. “I mean, he said you were...I only knew what anyone in intelligence knew. I didn’t...I figured it’d be, like, a breach of privacy to find you and not contact you. And I was...I didn’t know if you’d–” Clint stopped himself from saying something to make it awkward and finished, rather lamely– “remember me. Since we didn’t, you know...”

_keep in touch_. 

The sentence died in the air, but Phil blinked and flinched like he heard it anyway. Clint looked down and cleared his throat. He’d already said too much, and he hoped– _God_ how he hoped– that he didn’t sound needy. Or worse, accusatory, like...like he blamed Phil for their years apart. Clint knew he bore his own share of the blame for that., but he also knew that time and life did most of the work. They’d been _kids_ , the both of them, no matter how old Clint had felt at the time. Time and distance had long since taken the sting out of their separation; Clint had learned to be happy they’d had the time at all. And, if sometimes he felt a little _wistful_ , well, that wasn’t the same thing as regret. 

Phil shook off Clint’s hand, reversing their grip so he could squeeze Clint’s forearm. His hand was large and warm, and Clint wondered when Phil’s fingers had gotten so thick; they’d been almost delicate before. Phil got his attention with a gentle shake, and Clint looked up into a warm, kind face and liquid eyes that he knew so well, he’d dreamt of them through the years.

“I can safely say there was never any danger of me forgetting you.” Phil’s lips twisted in something that looked like a smile, but held so much sadness that it made Clint’s chest twist. “I...I thought about you. Wondered where you were. Early on, I wondered if, well.” Phil shook his head, and Clint wondered what he wasn’t saying. “But….but I never could figure out how to...Didn’t have email or whatever back then and–” He cut himself off and sighed.

Clint gulped hard around the lump that grew in his throat. He knew the feeling, and maybe, if he’d tried a little harder he could have… It wasn’t like _Clint_ had an address that would be easy to trace back then, especially not when he’d been pulled out of the circus. Doubly not when he’d run away from Trick and the performing life. But Phil was government property, and Clint had learned how to get information about that. Looking at the kindness and wistful sadness on Phil’s face, Clint wondered again why he hadn’t tried. Maybe they could have–

But no. Clint’s years between circus and government agent weren’t the kind of thing Phil, rising fast in the Rangers and international intelligence, could have risked his career to be around. Hell, having a Ranger around would have been just as disastrous for Clint. They both would have been in serious danger, should anyone that hired Clint (or tried to kill him) have found out. Plus, if Phil had been there, Clint would have missed out on so much: the on-the-job training for the skills that SHIELD valued him for, Natalya and the nights spent first in her arms and then by her side in friendship, learning how to find his own path to the person he wanted to be. 

Phil would have lost things, too, important things that changed his life for the better.The military wouldn’t have taken it too well, either, if Phil had been hiding both that he had a boyfriend _and_ that said boyfriend was wanted by a surprising number of governments and an even larger number of illegal organizations. Clint might have been good about flying below the radar professionally, back then, but he’d been terrible about keeping his relationships to himself; Clint wanted to shout from the rooftops when he found love. And _that_ would have gotten Phil booted from the military. Without the Army, Phil would have lost his chance to become _this_ man, the one AD Nick Fury wanted to bring in to run ops for SHIELD. Clint didn’t let himself ponder any lovers or _more_ that Phil might have knocking around in his past.

Still, Clint _did_ find himself feeling wistful. More than he’d ever admit aloud.

Clint swallowed a few times, waiting until the prickle of tears for might-have-beens faded away. He patted the back of Phil’s hand where it still held onto his arm, and smiled when Phil squeezed once before letting go. Phil returned the smile, and Clint wondered if it was his imagination or if Phil’s face really did look relieved. Clint nodded at him. _No hard feelings. No blame. Life is life._ Phil nodded back, and Clint cleared his throat.

“Eat up,” he said gruffly, gesturing toward Phil’s plate. “You’ll need your strength. You have a lot more paperwork and onboarding crap to get through before five o’clock.”

*****

Phil put his pen down and rubbed both hands over his face and then scratched his fingers through his hair. Clint hadn’t lied about the sheer volume of paperwork. By four o’clock, Phil’s brain felt like it was melting. 

“Hey, Phil.” Clint’s fingers brushed the back of Phil’s wrist, and Phil had the strangest urge to turn his hand around and catch Clint’s fingers with his own, squeeze them, hold on tightly. 

He must’ve been more brain-fried than he’d believed.

“Leave it for a bit.” Clint straightened the stack of papers Phil had been working on and tucked them neatly back into the black folder with the grey eagle emblem on one corner. “Put it in your desk, lock it up, and let’s go do something a little more interesting for a bit.”

He dragged Phil off for more coffee and a tour of the training facilities. The first stop was a live-ammo course that had Phil’s hands twitching for his sidearm: so many places to roll and jump and climb. Clint nudged his shoulder, eyes bright with teasing.

“ _After_ your physical clears you,” Clint said, and Phil decided to work on his poker face to make himself less easy to read. Clint laughed, and Phil knew he’d been broadcasting again.

Next, Clint took him to the gun range, proudly showing off the lane that had been modified for arrows. Phil nearly-nearly asked Clint to get his bow and show off for him. He held himself in check, though; that was a little personal for their first day back together, given their past. 

Particularly given how many times watching Clint shoot had ended in athletic teenaged sex.

Phil felt himself blushing at the memory (and the heat it created in his belly), and wondered if Clint was remembering the same. He seemed reluctant to meet Phil’s eyes until they were safely away and in an entirely different hallway. Clint swiped his name badge and opened a door into a waiting room that could have been the front lobby of any hospital, anywhere. 

Complete with gift shop.

Clint caught Phil’s raised eyebrow and grinned. “We try to keep people comfortable. Teddybears and flowers are hot commodities among the too-injured to transfer to and those who got hurt by something too weird to explain to civvie hospitals.”

“Ah.” Phil followed Clint on a short tour of agent-accessible spaces.

The medical facilities were reasonably impressive, and Clint explained SHIELD’s connections with various local and long-distance hospitals, depending on the type and severity of injuries obtained on the job. Most of the actual medical staff on-site was dedicated to rehabilitation or patching people up long enough for them to be safely transferred. Clint pointed out the doors to the labs and rooms for the classified healing and the weirdly damaged.

“I’m impressed,” Phil said, looking around with wide eyes. Clint didn’t quite smile, but his eyes glowed, and Phil could read the pride on his face, his happiness at Phil’s honest delight. He reached out to squeeze Clint’s shoulder. It suddenly struck him that the muscles under his fingers were harder, larger, more knotted than he was expecting and he yanked his hand away, reaching for the back of his own neck. “Um, I guess…”

Clint just looked at him, face calm and eyes steady, and then he smiled and twitched his head for Phil to follow him. “Let’s go through the HR offices on the way back, so you can see where to put in your vacation requests and complain about someone harassing you.” Clint gave him an overtly suggestive double-eyebrow wiggle and an exaggerated wink.

Phil laughed, and Clint laughed, too, and they rode down to the first floor on a very crowded elevator, shoulders bumping, grinning at one another. Clint took him through a few open-plan bullpens and shared offices, introducing Phil as “SHIELD’s newest superhero and my oldest friend”. Everyone seemed happy to see Clint– and Phil. Phil figured everyone was trying to make him feel welcome for Clint’s sake, and he couldn’t help but be grateful to have Clint at his side to make the adjusting easier. 

The tour ended back in Phil’s office where he could collect his employee handbook and the few remaining papers he needed to take home and finish. Clint lingered around the edges of the bland room, picking up a dingy, artificial plant on someone else’s desk and blowing on the leaves. Phil watched him, reluctant to leave, not knowing if he would see Clint the next day, suddenly wistful at the thought of walking away from him again.

“You’ll probably meet at least one of your officemates tomorrow. Melinda May is supposed to have finished the hand-to-hand training she was running.” Clint straightened the pens in a cup on one desk and then kicked at the leg of the other. “Jasper Sitwell is...God only knows where. Probably on patsy duty. His patsy is legendary. You’re gonna love him. Smartass. Foodie. There’s no one more believable undercover.”

“Oh.” Phil hadn’t really taken in a single word. He couldn’t manage to drag his eyes away from Clint’s fingers, a little more knotted, a little more scarred, but still so recognizably his own. “Yeah. That’ll be...I’m sure they’ll be great.”

“So, you have any questions for me?” Clint asked, pulling a tissue from a box on Sitwell’s desk to wipe at the fake fern on May’s. Then his face flashed red and he fumbled the plant. “About the job. Or the building or...or anything. You know. Work.”

Phil couldn’t think of a single question about the job. Not right then. Not with Clint looking at him with those bright eyes, all green and golden glints under the fluorescent lights. No one should look that beautiful under lighting that unflattering. But, _God_ , it was _Clint_. Fondness and memory meant that Clint probably would always be gorgeous to Phil’s eyes. 

As for Clint, Phil wanted to ask him where he’d gone right after school. If he’d been happy through the years. If he’d been safe and warm and loved. If he’d ever thought of Phil when the nights were too dark or too long or too lonely. If he’d ever thought of Phil when he’d been happy. Clint must’ve read something of those questions in Phil’s face, because he smiled, just the tiniest curve to the corner of his lips, and Phil wondered when the last time he’d felt so _seen_ had been.They hung there, silent, something intangible and unnameable passing between them, for several long minutes. 

Phil wondered if he could invite Clint to dinner, just so they could keep talking, but he didn’t know a single place in the city to invite someone. He would have asked for a suggestion, but there had been so much _time_ between them. There was more about Clint that Phil didn’t know, enough to hold him back from saying “come out to eat with me” or “let’s go to mine and order in” or “let me taste your lips, just to see if I’m remembering them right.” For all Phil knew, Clint had given up on men as too complicated, much the way Phil had (at least for relationships: weekends, overnights, or a brief encounter in a place with a door that could be locked or braced didn’t count). Phil sat down in the desk chair to make certain he had everything he needed for the night and to give him an excuse to look away from Clint’s probing gaze.

“Um, Phil?” Clint’s voice was soft, and Phil looked up to find Clint looking down at the single pen on Phil’s desk. “It’s...I mean, we’re technically off the clock now, and I wondered…”

Phil held his breath, wondering if Clint could be doing what Phil hadn’t been brave enough to try. _Would_ Clint ask him out? _Could_ he be willing to take the risk and see if there was some spark they could explore?

Clint looked up and smiled, soft and crooked and so much older than he’d been before. “This Friday, I wondered if you’d...if you’d want to go out with...if you’d want to go get a drink after work. Or...or maybe, like, dinner? I mean, to celebrate surviving your first week, you know?”

He looked so hopeful, but so suddenly shy, and Phil’s heart gave an odd stuttered thump. He swallowed hard and nodded, unable to break their sudden staring contest.

“Dinner would be…” Phil swallowed again, still nodding slowly. His mouth felt so dry, and his hands had suddenly picked up a barely-there tremble. “Dinner would be great. Give us time to, um, really catch up.”

“Yeah,” Clint’s smile turned from shy and small to bright and eager. “Exactly! Barney and Fina reserve Saturdays for date night, when they can _get_ a date night, and he’s got to get up stupid-early most days of the week, so we do supper most Fridays, so I know he’ll be free, too!”

Phil’s stomach twisted. Oh. He took a breath and let himself collect his suddenly skittering thoughts. Good thing Clint had clarified before Phil had said something too...too date-like about the whole thing. Friends. Going out to catch up with a couple of old friends. Well, that would be a new experience for Phil. He’d mostly had people he’d worked with and people he slept with in his life over the past few years. Friends would be...could be really good. Yeah, Phil would like to have the Barton boys for friends. 

He absolutely _would not_ be disappointed by something so welcome in his life.

“Great,”Phil said, scooping up his folders. At least he knew he’d be able to see Clint again soon. That...that meant a lot. And Barney, too. He’d always gotten along well with Barney. At least...when Barney hadn’t been walking in on them during...awkward moments. Still, it would be good, being friends with the Barton boys again. Hopefully.

*****

Clint completed the updates to the tactical weapons seminar he would be giving later that fall. He went over the blueprints of buildings that Bobbi and Blake would be infiltrating in another month to check their entering and escape plans. He made valuable contributions in each of the four mission briefs he’d been asked to attend to advise and critique. AD Fury and his terrifying right hand woman, Maria Hill (who was far and away the best agent Clint had ever known and one of his favorite people on the planet), had both stopped Clint in the hall to compliment his focus and drive over the course of the week.

Clint had nearly no memory of any of that work.

Every quiet minute at work and every _single_ minute at home, had him thinking of Phil. _Phil!_ The one that got away had come back to him, looking like...like every fantasy Clint had ever had about his ideal man. Phil still had his same sense of humor, could still laugh with his eyes, could still read Clint like a large-print book. He was just as polite and gracious as ever, as dedicated do doing everything exactly right; Clint had gotten so tickled watching Phil read every word of the directions for every form before he even picked up his pen. And being around him had just been the most _right_ Clint had felt in...had felt in...Well. Eighteen years. 

Asking him out just hours after re-meeting might have been moving a little fast, but _everyone_ had looked at Phil like he was the juiciest steak ever cooked at the end of a fast. Like water in the desert. Like...like the hottest man to ever walk through the door of SHIELD’s DC HQ. Clint might have waited a bit, but the familiarity to Blake’s body language had made him extremely nervous. If someone else at SHIELD had gotten a taste of Phil, they’d want to go back. Clint knew it, because _God_ how he wanted seconds. Thirds. All of it.

Wednesday morning, Clint overheard a couple ladies from the medical staff going on about how attractive Coulson’s arms were, when he’d removed his dress shirt for them to do his initial blood draws. Jealousy had clawed at Clint’s throat; he’d gotten to feel those arms beneath their heavy layer of suit coat and dress shirt. What he wouldn’t give to see them in the flesh. 

So to speak.

Excitement occasionally shifted to nervousness. What if Phil’s eagerness to turn an offer of drinks into solid plans for dinner ended up just being...disappointing? What if Clint’s table manners were too...circusy? What if Phil decided Clint was moving too fast? Oh, _God_! Clint would be mortified if he screwed up again the way he had in high school. Phil had wanted to go slowly, in spite of teenage hormones. Now that he was a grown-ass man (and how beautifully that ass had grown; round, firm, muscular, fit and sexy beneath his slacks), Clint would need to be doubly certain that he didn’t push for too much too fast. He’d go slow. He could do that. For Phil. For himself.

Besides, all the unattached people (that liked men) that Clint had introduced Phil to on Monday had given him that speculative look, like they were thinking about asking him out for the weekend, too. All Clint had done was make _damn certain_ he’d nailed that. Nailed Phil. _Nailed down_ the Friday night date hole...slot… _time_. All Clint had to do was make sure the date went perfectly. And having Barney there would help to fill any awkward moments where Clint was inclined to stare and think about all the other things that could be filled and what they could be filled _with_.

Usually by the time his thoughts got to that point, Clint found he had to get a glass of cold water, if he was at work, or unfasten his pants, if he was at home. By the time he’d cooled down (either before making things awkward or after having a nice solo orgasm), Clint would be back to worrying that maybe Clint was no longer up to Phil’s standards. Sure Clint looked good, but he’d done so much through the years that was...less than admirable. He hoped that maybe, just maybe he could at least attract Phil long enough to let Phil see that Clint wasn’t so bad after all, underneath the body. 

And speaking of bodies...

Phil had been no slouch in the fitness department when they’d known each other before. He’d been the only kid at Moulton High School with a body that could even begin to compete with the trained-athlete physiques of the kids from the circus. Clint _knew_ he should stop his thoughts at training with Phil, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Phil’s chest hair was still as fine and soft as before. If it was still the light dusting across his pecs or if it had filled in. He wondered if Phil’s flat stomach had the same smooth ridges and grooves, or if he was more knotted and bulky than before. If his skin was still sleek and soft, if he still goose-pimpled and trembled when he was touched and kissed.

And then Clint would lick his lips and wonder if Phil’s mouth was still so soft and demanding at once.

Maybe, by the end of the date, Phil would be at least ready for a goodnight kiss. Maybe he would pull Clint into his arms and nibble at the edge of Clint’s bottom lip. Maybe he would cup Clint’s face in his hands and let them share breath, amping up the need to be close, to connect before leaned in the last inch and kissed him senseless. Maybe Barney would have the decency to back out early, and Phil would decide that he didn’t want to be alone after they ate. Maybe they would go back to Clint’s, or back to Phil’s, and fall into each other’s arms to make out for hours before slowly pulling apart to separate for the rest of the night.

Clint had learned to go slow. He could fall in love at the drop of a hat (or at the first friendly smile turned his way), but he’d learned to go a little slower, take some time to get to know the person he thought he loved. He liked dating, liked a soft goodnight kiss on the doorstep and passing up an offering of _coming up for coffee_. He loved the moment that things felt stable enough to go right through that front door and on up to bed.

With Phil, though...with Phil, Clint knew he wouldn’t wait around on his own account. Sure, he’d go slowly. He wouldn’t push. He’d learned that, when something felt so very, very right, it probably was, but it was still best to take his time to be certain.

When Clint had first left the carnival circuit, wounded, lost, scared of everything, he’d tripped over a job. A frightened man had seen him with his bow in an empty lot in a city far away and hired Clint to protect him from someone that wanted him dead. Clint had been living overwhelmed by guilt from the taking of a life the night he’d escaped Trickshot (it had been out of mercy, but that didn’t stop the man from being dead), so he’d accepted, hoping it would be a shot at redemption. 

In a way, it had been, eventually, but Clint had ample opportunity over the next few years to both be very grateful and to regret that decision. The assassin sent to kill the guy had been a very young woman, barely more than a girl herself. She had cool eyes and firey hair, and she’d been more than a match for Clint and his comparatively lousy hand-to-hand fighting skills. After Clint’s client was dead, she’d set Clint down right there in the blood-soaked-and-demolished living room and explained how to research his employers. She’d offered to teach him how to fight even dirtier than Barney had taught him. Clint had been instantly in love, and he’d followed her off to be a full-time mercenary and assassin. It really _had_ been the right choice at the time, both for the work and for the partner he'd gained.

The job had been financially rewarding, and Clint still had access to money tucked away in dozens of countries around the world. Taking bad people out of play had provided a grim kind of satisfaction, but Clint had never really had the stomach for it. The girl, his Natalya, had watched him vomit after every killshot he ever made, promising he would eventually outgrow that unfortunate tendency. 

He never had, and he sometimes wondered if that was why she left him in Mexico City, injured and sick with some kind of horrible intestinal _thing_ that nearly killed him. 

Then again, if she hadn’t abandoned him, he never would have been in one place long enough to hear the SHIELD recruitment pitch from a large black man and a skinny white woman from SHIELD. 

Being rescued from the assassin’s life should have been an enormous relief, but losing Natalya in exchange for safety had seemed far too high a price at the time. In the end, Clint had run away from SHIELD and gone looking for her. He’d spent a few hungry months working as security for hire, but it didn’t pay as well as killing people had. He did catch a few glimpses of Natalya, but only from a distance. It hadn’t actually taken long before he’d gotten over her, gotten over eating cheap ramen noodles, and gotten over having to sew himself up after things went wrong. Finally, tail between his legs, he went back to the skinny white woman from SHIELD, Agent Maria Hill, and asked if he could still come in. She had sighed in exasperation and handed him his sign-on paperwork, already filled out except for his signature. 

“AD Fury has been waiting for you to show back up for a long time, Hawkeye,” she told him primly. “Don’t disappoint him again, or he’ll probably send me out to drag you back. That might be _your_ idea of fun, but I really don’t have time for that kind of trouble right now.”

Clint briefly contemplated falling in love with her, but decided she was much too terrifying. They’d been excellent colleagues and fairly good friends ever since.

So, sure, tumbling into the relationship with Natalya had eventually worked out for Clint, but he’d had to live through being dumped to get to the part of his life that was better. He’d learned that lesson very well, he’d thought. Right up to the moment another woman swept him off his feet.

The second time Clint had leapt before looking, he’d ended up married to Agent of SHIELD Bobbi Morse, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with so many letters after her name that it looked like her office door was playing scrabble. She came from money and class and a family name, and Clint had been so in love with her for loving him that he’d proposed on a whim, less than a month after they’d met. They’d been on their way to a mission halfway across the country when they made a brief stop in Vegas to get the paperwork taken care of. What followed had been a miserable year for both of them.

Point was, if Clint wanted things to work out, if he didn’t want to make someone he loved horribly unhappy, then he needed to go slowly, make damn certain they were entirely into him. And, with Phil and all the weight of their past hanging between them, Clint only knew that he wanted _this_ relationship to work as well as their past relationship. But this was _Phil_ , and Clint hadn’t needed much more than a single look to realize that this was the same Phil he’d known– and loved, oh _God_ how he’d loved– before. If only he was sure he could trust that his intuition, he’d pin the guy to the wall at the first opportunity. 

Knowing all of that, and knowing himself, Clint decided that it was a good thing he’d already decided he couldn’t bogart Phil and had invited Barney along. Between Barney’s rather excessive enthusiasm that tended to dominate conversations and his tendency to make _very_ inappropriate inside jokes (such as bringing up condoms on the Christmas tree or suggesting Clint order the cannoli any time Clint mentioned an attractive man in his life), he would surely help to keep Clint’s libido in check. 

On Friday afternoon, Clint thought about Phil’s beautiful eyes and broad shoulders, about all the sessions he’d had with his left hand all week, about how Phil had smiled at him and looked up through his lashes and how hard he’d hugged Clint to his rock-hard chest; _something_ needed to keep his dick under control. And there was nothing that had _ever_ proven to be a better boner-killer than Charles Bernard Barton. 

With the possible exception of the lack of success in his newest marksperson class. He sighed and looked across the gun-range, shaking his head at all the several-inches-from-center shots pocking the targets. He was calling it done for the day. If they hadn’t improved over the previous three days, maybe a weekend off would help it click for some people. Sure, it was a few minutes (half an hour) early, but it was Friday, and he was probably going to shoot Acosta for his lousy stance if he had to correct him even one more time. 

Besides, letting them go now would get Clint to Phil’s office before they had to do the awkward calling or waiting around in the lobby for all the SHIELD gossips to observe. Sometimes it paid to be a supervisor. 

*****

The rest of the Phil’s work week kept him nearly too busy to think about Clint’s dinner invitation. He went through his initial round of physicals, weapons tests, aptitude tests, and an increasingly bewildering set of psychological evaluations. It was fascinating, all of it, and Phil was delighted to get the second highest score record on the archery range. It was nowhere near Clint’s first place record, but it was enough to get Phil blanket invitation to use the arrow lane any time it wasn’t in use. It _also_ got him a note in his file to be trained on the “danger course” with a bow. By Agent Clint Barton, codename: Hawkeye. 

The way the rangemaster said it, the word sounded more like Hotguy. Phil entirely agreed, though not aloud. He _couldn’t_ say it aloud. Not with….not with Clint’s unspoken caveat on their dinner– it was _not_ a date. No one invited their brother on a date…or asked an interest to join them and their brother for a first date 

So the busy days kept Phil distracted, fascinated by every facet of his new job. The psych evals left his brain too tired to tumble around in the evening, and the physical exertion had him falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. The new mattress was the most astonishingly comfortable bed Phil had ever had, and it almost resigned him to how much the damn thing had cost. It was all fascinating, and had the added bonus of wearing Phil out to the point of utter exhaustion by the end of the day. He slept well on his new mattress in his new studio apartment beneath his new sheets. It was enough to help him start settling in. 

The only space Phil found for… _obsessing_ , for lack of a better word, happened in the shower. Thinking about Clint _did things_ to Phil– things Phil pointedly didn’t deal with. It would be _rude_ to jerk off to Clint. _Especially_ to thoughts of Clint as he was now. They were coworkers and friends. Maybe friends. Phil still wasn’t entirely certain about what they were trying to be.

Evidence: Clint had asked him to dinner. 

Well, technically, Clint had asked him for a drink. And then offered dinner as an alternative. Maybe Phil shouldn’t have been so quick to jump to dinner. Maybe Clint had just been...being polite. But he’d seemed pleased when Phil accepted for dinner. His smile had gone from hopeful-but-uncertain to giant and thrilled in an instant. 

Evidence: Clint said that Barney was coming. 

Taking one’s brother along to dinner with a friend made a lot more sense than taking one’s brother along to dinner with a...potential bedmate. Maybe Clint was trying to make a point: I don’t feel romantically toward you; you’re one of us brothers; I’m glad you’re back, but I’m not interested in going back in time.

Evidence: Clint apparently had standing plans with Barney on Fridays. 

Clint apparently didn’t think of Fridays as a night for dating; it was the evening for being with his brother. So maybe Clint just didn’t want to break his plans with Barney? Maybe he really _did_ want to spend time with Phil, but he hated to let Barney down? But...Barney was, theoretically, available for the long-term. And a first dinner out with someone...a re-first dinner out with someone only happened once, presumably. So surely Barney would understand, if it was a date. Or...maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want Clint getting back with the asshole who’d broken his heart. Maybe Clint invited him in the hopes that Barney would forgive Phil and give his blessing.

Maybe Phil was overthinking it. 

Evidence: Phil was going to dinner on Friday night with two people he’d once been best friends with. 

So whatever thoughts had gone into inviting Barney didn’t matter. Phil wanted the friendship that Clint offered. He wanted it with a fervency that surprised him. Maybe he’d gotten too lonely over the years, never really having a home base. Maybe some part of him hoped– with the wistful, dreamy hope of boyhood, not really with actual anticipation– that he and Clint would fall back into bed and touch and love. But...not really. 

Friendship was enough. 

More than Phil, aged nineteen and lonely, had thought he would find again. More than Phil, aged 36 and new to SHIELD and new to civilian life and new to DC, thought he could possibly have. Phil needed to make damn sure he could look at Clint and only see someone that was his friend. He needed to learn to think of Clint the way he thought of Barney. Sure, Barney was handsome, but his good looks just _didn’t matter_. Handsomeness existed, but Phil didn’t really think about it. Mostly, Phil needed to quit imagining the spread of Clint’s shoulders and the bulk of his arms (although the stretch to his shirt sleeves when he’d removed his jacket before lunch on Monday had made Phil’s head swim and his knees weak). Phil _had_ to stop thinking about how the voice he sometimes held conversations with in his head no longer sounded like sixteen-year-old Clint, how it had morphed into the older, _now_ version of Clint’s voice. And he _really_ needed to quit having dreams about Clint, where Clint’s mouth was still soft and wet, hot and so wicked.

And, most of all, he needed to stop letting his mind drift onto all of those things in the shower. He managed to keep his hands off himself, but he ended up daydreaming far too long. It would have been worse had the hot water tank not been so horribly subpar; suddenly running out of hot water was an excellent way to get his mind back on rinsing out the shampoo and getting dried off. With the water tank’s “help”, at least he hadn’t been late to work because of his dawdling in the mornings.

The dreams, day- or sleeping, wouldn’t quit though, and Phil spent the entire week torn between being anxious to see Clint again– to listen to him, to watch the humor and thoughts play across his handsome face– and dreading that he would somehow give himself away for all the times he woke up hard and panting, wishing he could hold onto the images in his head, but knowing it was wrong. 

Maybe more exposure was just what Phil needed to get off Clint.

Bad phrasing.

Maybe more exposure _to Clint_ was just what Phil needed to get _his mind_ off of being on Clint. 

Worse phrasing.

Maybe more exposure to Clint was just what Phil needed to get his mind off of Clint.

Maybe Phil just needed to have a drink or two at dinner on Friday night.

*****

Friday was Phil’s worst day at work. To be fair, having only been employed at the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division for one week, he didn’t have a lot to compare it to. Monday, he had gotten to spend the entire day with Clint, so it could only have been all downhill from there. By lunchtime Friday, he was tired of being poked and prodded, physically and mentally. He was starting to regret, only slightly, having agreed to go to dinner with the Barton brothers. Mostly, he wanted to go home and see if a _satisfying_ shower orgasm was even possible with his hot water tank, eat something from the freezer section at the grocery store, and fall onto his bed to sleep for forty-eight hours. 

Shower and eating optional.

By four-thirty, he’d decided he couldn’t possibly go. It would be okay, he was sure, Clint and Barney both lived right there in DC. They could do dinner later. Maybe they would let Phil join them for Friday dinner the following week, since Friday dinner was a thing they apparently did regularly. If he just told Clint how tired he was, surely Clint would understand. And that’s all it was: Phil was just so tired.

His reluctance had nothing at all to do with his increasing conviction that Clint had been making a statement by asking Phil to go with him _and his brother_. It was probably for the best that Clint intended to renew their acquaintance with his brother there. Work had been safe; Phil would never have made a move in the workplace they now shared. But dinner was...riskier. Having a buffer would keep it from ever feeling like a date, and having a chaperone would keep Phil from losing his mind and doing something stupid, like leaning over and planting an ardent kiss right on Clint’s ridiculously expressive, beautiful mouth.

The next twenty minutes dragged by while Phil mentally tried and discarded a few dozen excuses for not going. A knock on his door at ten to five made Phil’s hands sweat, and he carefully wiped them with a tissue before calling a polite, “Come in.”

Clint opened the door, dressed in a tight black t-shirt, a pair of tac pants, and heavy black boots. Phil’s mouth went dry, his pulse kicked up a notch or three, and all his carefully planned phrases about being a little too tired and a little too overwhelmed flew out of his head.

“Hey.” Clint grabbed the front of his t-shirt, twisting it between his hands enough to untuck the Hem and show a glimpse of skin beneath. Seeing the silvery flash of a scar, Phil stopped breathing. He _knew_ that scar, could trace perfectly in memory the way it skimmed down Clint’s ribs and curled around just above his hip. “Phil? Are we still on tonight?”

The uncertainty in Clint’s voice pulled Phil’s mind off of his skin and back to the question at hand. Phil immediately felt horrible about even _thinking_ of ducking out on him. That would have been no way to treat his oldest friend.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Phil answered, his voice unexpectedly hoarse and intense. 

Clint’s face lit up in a blinding smile, and Phil didn’t even bother to add that he wanted to get home early. For _that_ smile, he could stay out all night.

*****

Clint had spent a solid ten minutes convincing Barney that the restaurant they chose was the perfect choice. He’d argued that Barney _always_ left early on Fridays, so he should travel the longer distance to a place near SHIELD, keeping supper from being too late (but not so close that they ran the risk of being interrupted by other Agents or support staff). He’d talked up the well-stocked bar (it was true), the excellence of the steaks (barely stretched the truth), and the quiet atmosphere for conversing (sometimes an outright lie on a Friday night, if there was a game on or one of the other alphabets were having some kind of celebration). He carefully _didn’t_ mention the cozy ambiance of the lit fireplace or the tiny oil candles on the tables that lent a hint of romance to an otherwise ordinary steakhouse. He _especially_ didn’t talk up the cozy booths, with their low backs, perfect for draping an arm around someone’s shoulders while appearing to casually lean back in one’s seat. He didn’t say one word about the high walls or greenery between booths that lent a little privacy that Clint was hoping to make use of once he managed to shoo Barney home. 

Barney chose a table and chairs @whwen he got there first. Because of course he did.

Phil’s aftershave had teased Clint the whole time Phil had puttered around his desk, shutting down his work station and gathering papers into a beat-up briefcase. It had made him positively light-headed in the back of the cab they’d shared to the restaurant. Sitting around the corner of the table from Phil, the yeasty smell of freshly baked rolls and the smokey aroma of steaks filling the air, Clint found that he wanted to sulk. He couldn’t _smell_ Phil from where he sat. Worse, he wouldn’t be able to touch Phil’s arm or bump their thighs together casually, just to see how his touch was received. So, instead of canoodling happily on a soft leather cushion, Clint was sitting rigidly on a hard chair, trying to figure out if he had foot resting against Phil’s shiny wingtip, or if he was trying to play footsie with the table. 

Phil and Barney were just finishing up their greetings when the server came by to drop off their drinks, and Clint took the opportunity to wade into the conversation.

“So how’s your week been?” he asked Phil, flipping pages on his menu without looking at it. “You still feel like a fish out of water? I know I did for, like, six months. But I was...in a very different job before I got there. Not that you weren’t, of course. I’m sure whatever you _were_ doing was...a lot different than SHIELD. We’re not really all that regimented there, right? Compared to the Army. But it was...it felt a little suffocating to me, at first. So it was just a real change, you know?”

Barney rescued Clint from his own babble by sticking his own menu in Clint’s face.

“Look, little brother!” Barney said, shaking the menu a little. “They have that great cannoli. Your favorite. You really used to put it away, right? Almost like you were trying to hide it. That’s what you want for dessert, right?”

Well, it _did_ effectively shut Clint up. He stared at Barney, face hot with what was probably a horrible blush. _Hide the cannoli_ was the term Barney had used to tease Clint about how much sex he and his high school boyfriend had. His high school boyfriend, Phil. His high school boyfriend, Phil, who might have heard that term out of Barney more than once. _Had_ Barney ever said it around Phil? Clint was afraid to look over and find out if Phil remembered.

“Hmm,” Phil murmured, and Clint glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was safe; Phil’s eyes were firmly fixed on his own menu. “I’ll keep the cannoli in mind, then. Oh, Burgers!”

Barney faked a cough, clearly covering a snort of laughter, and Clint closed his eyes for a moment. He tried hard– he tried valiantly not to think of Phil having cannoli for dessert. It was a first damn date, much too soon to be thinking about cannoli. Er, sex. With Phil. Who looked particularly hot with his jacket hanging over the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up to show off his toned forearms. 

Clint thought about cannoli until Barney stretched out his legs, kicking Clint lightly in the shin as he did.

“So how _has_ your week been, Phil?” Barney folded his menu shut and tossed it onto the table. 

“How about I finish this beer before I try to tell you about it?” Phil held up his glass and laughed ruefully. “I’m still not entirely certain I have the slightest idea what I’m supposed to be doing, what I’m already doing, or what they _hope_ I do eventually.”

Clint leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table and his cheek on his fist. He wanted to reach out and brush his fingers over Phil’s cheek, take his hand where it rested on his menu on the table. Something to offer a little comfort. And to prove to himself that Phil was really there.

“According to what Fury told us when he announced he was bringing you on,” he said, “You’re one of the best planners and backup planners and backup-backup planners in the world. He also told us that, when planning fails, you just fly by the seat of your pants and succeed anyway.”

The very tips of Phil’s ears turned pink, and Clint wanted to lean over and nibble on one of them. He resisted. 

“Not like you should’ve needed anyone to tell you that,” Barney said, slugging Clint in the shoulder hard enough to jostle his elbow off the table. Clint shot him a nasty glare, but Barney just grinned cheekily at him. “That’s just that Coulson kid at his finest!”

Clint didn’t facepalm, but it was a near thing. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Phil said, looking down at his menu. The pink had spread all the way along the side of his neck and up to his hairline, and Clint wanted to tilt his face up and see how Phil looked when he blushed. Now. How Phil looked when he blushed _now_. Not that Clint was having a hard time– not that Clint was having any difficulty imagining it. 

“So what’s good here?” Phil asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Well,” Barney drawled, leaning back in his seat and tucking his hands behind his head. “I’ve heard the cannoli is great, but that’s mostly Clint’s thing.”

Eyes never leaving his menu, Clint lashed out with his foot, and the whole table rattled when boot struck table leg. Barney snorted. Phil looked up from his menu, one eyebrow raised, and Clint muttered an excuse about leg cramp. He couldn’t be expected to think up anything better with Phil giving him one of his classic eyebrow comments. He’d always been hot when he did that, talking with his eyebrows. And _God_ , Clint found it way too appealing. It’d become a bit of a thing for that over the years. 

Damn Phil and his expressive eyebrows. Damn them for being so ridiculously hot. Damn Clint for having a _thing_ about people who talked with their eyebrows. Which he probably developed because of Phil. Nearly twenty years before. Oh _god_.

Clint so totally _still_ had a thing for Phil, rather than having a new _thing_ or having redeveloped a _thing_. Barney had been right that day he’d come over while Clint was hunting for the tie tack. Clint hated him just a little for that. 

“How are Afina and the kids?” Phil looked at Barney, smile softening into wistful and a little sad. “I really do want to...to meet them all someday. The kids. And it’d be great to see Fina again.”

“Fina made me promise that I’ll invite you to the next barbeque.” Barney grinned the same sappy grin he always wore when he talked about his little nuclear family. Phil’s expression shifted closer to sad. “She also told me to tell you, quote, ‘we’ll kill the fatted calf.’ We’ll get Tab and Rodi and this–” He pointed at Clint– “asshole to come over.” Barney leaned forward and his face turned serious. “It’ll be good to have the _whole_ family together again, Phil. Been too long.”

Phil held Barney’s gaze for a moment, and Clint lost his breath when Phil’s eyes went even wider and more luminous, their sparkle enhanced rather than drowned by the tears that welled up. And _oh god_ , he was thinking in romance novel terms. Clint grabbed his beer and took a deep swallow. He also, of course, managed to choke a little. 

Their server came by to get their orders while Clint was still coughing, and he barely managed to croak out his desired steak, how he wanted it cooked, and what he wanted to go with it. Phil smiled shyly at him when he ordered the same steak, also medium-rare, and the same baked potato toppings and vegetable. Clint tried not to read anything into it, but he still felt a little gratified that Phil either trusted his taste or else they were still astonishingly in sync. Barney ordered his food while Clint and Phil sat there smiling at each other, and then he cleared his throat, making them both jump.

“So the baby started crawling last week,” Barney said, leaning back in his chair. “No one’s had any peace since. The girls don’t understand quite why he hasn’t been up on the rope yet. I told them he’s got to at _least_ be able to stand up. Apparently basic physics don’t mean much to them.”

“Having been on the tightrope myself,” Phil said, laughing a little, “I’m pretty sure that no one who performs up there knows anything about physics. Or else they just decide the laws of gravity don’t apply to them.”

Barney’s giant bark of laughter echoed across the restaurant, and that set Clint off into a laugh of his own. Phil’s eyes crinkled, and he leaned his head back and laughed just as hard. It felt...normal, sitting there with his brother and the man who had once been his high school sweetheart, laughing together, just...being. Clint took a deep breath as they all finally trailed off into snickers and finally stopped chuckling. 

“Wow, Barn.” Phil blinked a couple of times. “I can’t decide if I find it really weird that you have babies or really fitting. Hell, you were a pretty good dad to Clint and even to me, way back.”

Barney looked down, his neck turning red, and Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and smiling warmly. All of them, in DC, safer than they’d been before, poverty long past (although fear of it still lingered, probably for all of them). But still.

Here. 

Now. 

Together. 

Something warm and fuzzy and soft grew behind his ribs, and Clint could feel himself settling in: inside his head, inside his skin, inside his heart. He must’ve made some kind of sound or sign, because Phil looked over at Clint and smiled, crinkles appearing beside his eyes and the corners of lips. Clint’s heartbeat kicked up a notch, and he smiled back. They might’ve stayed like that until their food came or the sun went supernova, whichever came last, but Barney had to interrupt.

“What about you, Phil?” Barney leaned forward and nudged Clint’s shin. He flinched when Clint retaliated, catching him with the toe of his boot. “Any missus or mister lurking around? Illegitimate children trailing in your wake?”

Phil laughed, ducking his head. Clint automatically laughed, too, wondering how a grown man– _especially_ one who’d grown up as handsome and sexy as Phil– could look so damned cute. 

“No,” he answered, glancing up and catching Clint's eyes. “I haven’t...I haven’t had a long-term anything in quite some time.” Clint felt his heart skip a beat, and he wondered if he was reading something into that look or if Phil meant all the things his eyes seemed to be saying. “Haven’t really been looking. Not, I mean...I just haven’t found anybody special enough to get...to be serious about.”

Clint wondered if Phil’s look really meant that he hadn’t found anyone since _Clint_ , but he shuddered away from that idea. The thought of Phil alone all those years, not being loved, not being held and treasured– it was too awful to contemplate. Clint wanted to pull Phil in and promise to be his someone special. To promise that he’d try as hard as he could, that he would do _anything_ to keep Phil from being lonely ever again. Neither of them looked away, and Clint hoped Phil could read in Clint’s eyes all the things it was still too soon to say.

“Who had the chicken fried steak?” A server interrupted. 

Barney raised his hand, and the spell was broken. The rest of the meal passed without any further _moments_ , but Clint could feel Phil’s eyes on him as he ate. They exchanged a few small smiles around their general conversation. And then Phil started on his second beer. He got steadily more relaxed, his gestures a little more expansive, his smile broader, more mischievous, and Clint couldn’t help but see the boy Phil had been peeking out from under the older, manlier exterior. He wanted to scoot his chair closer, sling his arm around Phil’s neck, taste his lips. He couldn’t though, not with Barney sitting right there, watching them both with a barely-stifled grin on his big, dumb face. 

Clint had wanted to find a low-pressure way for Phil to spend some time with him, but, the way Barney was acting, Clint found _himself_ under pressure. He started regretting ever getting back in touch with his brother in the first place. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been even a little prepared for Phil to show up looking so...so...so _Phil_. So perfectly himself, grown into ideal manhood. Er, into Clint’s ideal of manhood, anyway.

Barney ordered Clint’s dessert for him while he was in the restroom. It landed on their table just as Clint came back, and he absolutely did _not_ throw the plate of cannoli that the server sat in front of him. He wanted to, though; he wanted to slam it against Barney’s idiotic grin and grind it in. Instead, he ate it, commented on the creamy filling, and didn’t blush a bit when Phil said he wanted to try _Clint’s cannoli_ for himself (oh, he did blush. He blushed so badly that Phil asked him what was wrong).

They ate their way through dessert (Clint was so damned relieved that Phil ordered a chocolate cake), Barney and Phil chatting about work and Barney’s family, Clint barely able to bring himself to say much of anything. He was too absorbed in watching Phil’s face, listening to the cadence of his voice without much hearing the words he said, memorizing again the way Phil matched his expressive eyebrows to his feelings. Resentment toward Barney melted away as Clint watched Phil, sure that, without his brother there, they would be sitting in silence and the date would be a bust. At least with Barney carrying on the conversation, Clint could just gaze to his heart’s content. 

Clint tried to listen, sure that Phil would say important things that would show if he was as much the same inside as Clint believed. But, really, with that handsome face right there to stare at, with that soft, even voice to listen to, how could Clint do anything except drift along in a kind of dopey, smitten happiness? Phil glanced over from time to time, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes letting Clint know that he hadn’t been forgotten, that he wasn’t being left out, that Phil was just as happy to have Clint sitting there in silence as Clint was do to it. 

Eventually the meal wrapped, and the check was delivered. Clint grabbed it first: he’d asked for the date, he’d invited Barney along, and he was paying, Goddamnit. He could finally show Phil just how well he was doing, just how much of a provider he could be. Barney let him, smiling at him in that proud, paternal way he always did when he felt Clint was showing just how much he’d grown up. And then Barney stood, saying he needed to get home to his girls. Phil popped to his feet and reached out to shake Barney’s hand; Barney didn’t let him, instead dragging him into a tight hug.

“In _this_ family,” Barney said, looking over Phil’s shoulder at Clint, lips curling up in a little smile, “in this family, we hug each other.”

Clint didn’t feel even a little jealous. Honestly. None at all. Just because he would have to wait to tuck himself into Phil’s arms again. He could wait. No problem.

“I’m glad–” Barney hesitated, one hand tightening on Phil’s upper back. He looked at Clint and nodded, and Clint read Barney’s permission to keep going with Phil, his enthusiastic approval, even. Not that Clint needed Barney’s blessing. Still it was nice to have. “I’m glad we found you again. That you and Clint...I’m glad you found each other. He hasn’t had enough people like you in his life. And I...I guess you haven’t either.”

The tips of Phil’s ears turned pink, and he leaned back, smiling over his shoulder at Clint with his face relaxed and calm and genuinely happy.

“I’m glad, too.” He turned back to Barney. “I haven’t had enough people like you in my life, either, Barn.”

They managed polite, normal goodbyes after that, and then Phil turned to look at Clint before stepping sideways to bump their shoulders together.

“So, ah, you wanna come back to mine for...for a cup of coffee?” He didn’t look at Clint as he said it, and the little blush spread from his ears down his neck, staining his cheeks with a high spot of color.

Clint leaned into Phil just a bit more, torn between panic and ecstasy. He wanted to say yes, oh _God_ , he wanted to say yes, to go to Phil’s and lean him against a wall, taste his mouth and his neck, peel the suit right off of him and explore the skin beneath. But...but he was going slow. He was _going_ to go slowly.

_What if Phil doesn’t want to go slow?_

“I haven’t exactly figured out the public transit around here,” Phil confessed, eyes wide and earnest. “And I might have had a little too much to drink. Should’ve skipped the Irish coffee at the end. I just...I can easily see myself riding around the damned subway all night long. And I really do need a cup of coffee _without_ booze in it. So I could, um, use a hand getting home.”

Clint squared his shoulders and gallantly accepted. This he could do. He could get Phil safely home, drink a cup of coffee, and keep his dick in his pants. He _needed_ this to go slowly, needed for them both to get to know each other again for real. He needed to make sure he wasn’t attracted to the familiarity instead of the new reality of this very adult Phil. So he would make sure they actually drank the damn coffee and that he left a polite five minutes after emptying the cup.

Halfway there, Phil smiled sweetly up at Clint through his lashes, and Clint hated self-control and second chances and all the things that kept him from leaning close and running his lips over the sexy crinkles at the corners of Phil’s eyes.

*****

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit._

Phil’s entire mental process ground to a halt in the endless loop of swearing in his head. He hadn’t been thinking when he’d invited Clint back to see his place. He hadn’t been thinking at _all_. All he could really think about was how nice it’d been to spend an evening with friends again after feeling so alone in his new life. How nice it’d been to sit across from Clint and watch the familiar expressions chase across his beautiful, familiar-but-strange adult face. How nice it’d been to see Clint’s smile and hear his barking laugh after two decades of faded imaginings. How much he wasn’t ready for the night to end, not yet. He told himself that wasn’t ready to be alone, ignoring the little voice that whispered something about specifically wanting to spend more time with _Clint_.

If he’d been thinking clearly, he’d have suggested coffee at a diner somewhere. Somewhere with someplace soft to sit that _wasn’t_ Phil’s unmade bed, especially with all the memories of Clint and beds rattling around under Phil’s ribs. 

If he’d thought at _all_ , Phil would have asked to go somewhere that didn’t have his dog tags lying on his nightstand, a small golden band that Clint would be certain to recognize dangling from the same chain. If it’d been anyone but Clint he was taking back, Phil would have just walked in and grabbed the chain in his fist, shoving it under the covers while he pulled his bedspread up to make the room a bit neater. Of course, if it’d been anyone but Clint, Phil wouldn’t have worried about them seeing the token, let alone knowing what it meant in the past. 

Clint, though, Clint wasn’t called Hawkeye for nothing. His vision clearly hadn’t suffered through the intervening years, and SHIELD had taken his natural talents of observation and sharpened them into a weapon. Phil knew he would never be smooth enough to keep Clint from seeing what he was doing; _trying_ to be sneaky would attract Clint’s focus even faster. 

Still, he just _couldn’t_ let Clint see that. That ring. Clint’s mother’s ring. The one that had adorned Phil’s hand from Christmas of his senior year to graduation. The one that Clint had tucked in Phil’s backpack before he’d boarded the bus that took him out of Clint’s life and away to the Army. He wondered if Clint remembered. If Clint regretted it. Maybe later, _much_ later, when their fragile new friendship was finally on firm ground, Phil could give it back to him. Phil had nearly forgotten it’s origin, over the years. No, not _forgotten_ , exactly. Had chosen not to remember. He could tell Clint that, with a completely straight face. It wasn’t _exactly_ a lie. It was just a lucky trinket that Phil kept close. For, er, luck. 

Maybe that would keep the ring from being weird between them. Maybe pigs would fly, the Cubs would win the Series, and Phil would find himself waking up in bed next to a well-fucked Nathan Fillion. 

In the meantime, Phil needed to get the damn thing out of sight and out of mind, and do his damnedest to try to keep things from getting awkward. Awkwarder. He hoped Clint hadn’t noticed the dopey way Phil kept feeling himself smiling. But Clint’s _eyes_. They were...they were Clint’s. Same changeable color. Same changeable mood. Same most-beautiful-Phil-had-ever-seen. 

And _God_ , Phil hoped he sobered up before he did something that let Clint know how much Phil wished they could just reset the clock twenty years and go back to sex and love and all the things that ran deeper than friendship when they were kids. But no. Clint was a coworker. And old friend. A new friend. Someone Phil was _extremely_ grateful to have found in his weird new job in this weird new place. Clint was still so much himself that, even though he’d grown up miles out of Phil’s league, he still had that same big heart that would let them be friends.

Phil smiled at Clint, and Clint smiled back, warm and easy and as comfortable as an old sweatshirt. 

Friends. Phil could do friends. He’d rock the _Hell_ out of friends. And he’d keep all his other, rather depraved feelings and hormones out of it.

“I...I left some things out.” Phil pushed in front of Clint to lead the way up the stairs. He dug uselessly around inside his pocket, trying to find his keychain. “I mean, some things that are…”

Clint squinted at him in the dim light of the cheap bulbs in the hall and then suddenly looked away with his cheeks flushing red. Phil almost backtracked, but then he decided that Clint thinking he needed to put away his non-existent sex toy collection was preferable to Clint knowing the truth. 

“I’ll just...I’ll wait here, yeah?” Clint reached up to grab the back of his neck, and Phil suddenly again saw the mostly grown, far-too-beautiful boy who’d been his entire world two decades before. That gesture was so familiar that Phil had accidentally emulated it over the years. “Take your, ah, take your time.”

Phil darted through the narrowest crack in the door he could manage and swooped toward his bed, yanking the top sheet and boring blue bedspread smooth and rescuing the spare pillow from the floor. Then he hurried around the room, kicking five days worth of underwear into a pile inside the closet, which he hurriedly pulled shut. He pushed the upside-down picture of Clint into the nightstand drawer, dropping his book on top of it, grabbed the chain that held his tags and that one damning little band off the nightstand, and then froze.

If he put them in his closet, Clint wouldn’t be likely to see them. On the other hand, if he put them in in the closet, _Phil_ wouldn’t be able to see them first thing in the morning, and that felt...wrong. He could put them in the nightstand, but what if he needed his reading glasses before Clint left? What if Clint got curious and decided to open drawers (he _was_ a spy, after all). Phil looked around the room, panic beginning to rise again and then he landed on a brilliant idea. Clint was unlikely to look under Phil’s pillow (since digging around someone’s bed was a thing reserved for lovers and not just nosy friends), and Phil would have easy access to the things that had been his touchstones for the last eighteen years. He glanced into the bathroom to make certain it hadn’t gotten too gross in the past week while Phil got ready for work on autopilot. He rinsed a few stray whiskers out of the sink and closed the toilet seat and lid. 

He was ready for Clint. Mostly.

“Ah, hi.” Phil pulled the door open and found Clint leaning easily against the frame, humming under his breath. The tune was vaguely familiar, but Phil couldn’t hear it well enough to decide what it was.

“Hi.” Clint smiled at him, and the brightness of his eyes punched the air from Phil’s lungs. “You ready for me now?”

_I’ve been ready for you since I saw you back at HQ for the first time._ Phil pushed that thought away. If they were going to be friends– and one supper was enough to convince Phil that being friends with both Barton brothers was a thing he desperately needed in his life– he’d need to stop reacting to Clint as if they were both still teenagers in love.

“Sure. Hope you don’t mind a few dishes in the sink.”

*****

Phil actually made coffee. He invited Clint up to his place– his wee studio apartment that was so empty it made Clint’s heart hurt to think of Phil going home there– and actually made a pot of coffee. With cups in hand, they sat awkwardly, side by side, on the foot of the bed. Clint kept opening his mouth to try to start a conversation and then realizing he had nothing to say that wasn’t something like _I’m still kinda crazy for you; let’s fuck_ or _can we just skip the early days of dating and go right to being together? We can get to know each other again as we go. Just like last time._. 

Neither of those options seemed like the way to build something solid between them, so he held his tongue, took another sip of coffee and wished Phil would break the silence. He glanced over at Phil out of the corner of his eye and saw Phil quickly jerk back to facing forward. Apparently Phil’d been trying to eye his pillows without letting on. What was so fascinating about a couple pillows that… _Oh_.

_Jesus. Some Hawkeye. Can’t see what’s right in front of my damn face._

Poor Phil! First week at a new job, wearing a suit every single day, being on his best company manners, sitting through training classes and orientation seminars, meeting new people, and trying to memorize a million new rules. He must’ve been absolutely wiped. Looking a little more carefully, Clint could even see the signs of exhaustion: the deepening of lines around Phil’s eyes, the light purpling of tired bruises underneath them, the tension around the corners of his lips. If Clint’d been thinking (about anything other than how good it’d be to to have Phil all to himself), he’d have excused himself as soon as he saw Phil to his home. 

“I better get going.” Clint gulped down the last swallow from his mug and got up to set it in the sink with the other four cups that had congregated. If a plate or two didn’t show up soon, Clint was going to start taking Phil sack lunches again. For someone who could cook for others like Phil used to, he obviously had never figured out how to actually feed _himself_. “It’s late and we’ve both had early days all week. You should get to bed, yeah? You can sleep in tomorrow!”

“Oh, I…” Phil bit his lip and rose to set his own mug, still mostly full of coffee, on the counter. “Yeah. That’ll...that’s a good idea.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted at Clint’s face. “You have plans this weekend?”

“Flight protocol update meeting tomorrow night, then there’s a family dinner on Sunday.” Clint wanted to ask Phil to come with him, but it seemed like moving a bit too fast. Not that Phil needed to _meet_ Clint’s family. Except the kids. Oh god, the kids. How would he introduce Phil to them? _This is Uncle Clint’s friend?_ No, didn’t explain enough. _This is Uncle Clint’s boyfriend?_ Explained too much. _This is Uncle Phil. He’s mine._

Yeah, probably not that one, either.

Phil just nodded. “I’m going to try to finish unpacking what I brought with me.” Phil rose up on his toes, swayed to his heels, and then kept rocking. “I need to make head up to Chicago soon, though. Hopefully bringing the car back.”

“Oh! Is it her?” Clint’s cheeks hurt with the grin that grew on his face. ”Do you still have Lola?”

Oh the memories! _Phil lying on his stomach on a sandy beach, telling Clint about the day the last coat of red paint would go on his dream girl. Phil riding on the back of Clint’s motorcycle, erection pressing shamelessly against Clint’s lower back, one hand tucked down the front of Clint’s jeans to play with his balls. Phil whispering wishes and dreams to Clint: visions of rolling along a highway with the top down; fantasies of spreading Clint across the hood and sucking him to heaven._

“...think I could ever part with her,” Phil was somewhere in the middle of his reply when Clint caught up, but he gathered that yes, Phil still had the pretty little red Corvette. 

“So I’ll finally get to meet the woman you cheated on with me, huh?” Clint had a moment of panic, wondering how _that_ had popped out of his mouth without getting his prior authorization. “I mean, with my bike. Um. Riding. Driving. In high school.”

It was the first time either of them had specifically brought up their actual history. Even obliquely. 

“Nah.” Phil grinned at Clint, sleepy and soft, eyes full of warm memories. “She and I always shared an open relationship. At least, on my end. If I hear she’s been stepping out with a Dodge or something, we’ll probably have words.”

Clint laughed and stepped toward Phil, trying his best not to stare at the sharp edge that Phil’s bottom lip had somehow developed. He could cut his tongue on a lip like that… Phil met him halfway, and they hugged.

Just hugged. 

Wrapped each other into a tight embrace and held on a little too long. It all would have been fine if they hadn’t both shifted the same direction at once and ended up with Phil’s hipbones tucked into the cradle of Clint’s.

Even soft, he was _still_ unfairly, mouth-wateringly, gloriously large. Maybe larger than he’d been before. Or maybe Clint had forgotten. Either way, Clint’s dick pulsed with heat, making something like hunger swoop through Clint’s belly. Clint stepped away quickly, hoping he’d moved quickly enough to hide his reaction to their proximity.

“I’ll, ah, I’ll call a cab.” Clint had _zero_ intention of trying to manage public transportation sporting an obvious erection. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the button for the SHIELD-approved taxi service. Phil gave him his address (again) when Clint asked for it, and then they both walked down to the front walk to wait for Clint’s ride. They hugged again, and Clint carefully, politely tried to keep his hips back to prevent any accidental humping. Any _more_ accidental humping.

Once he was in the car, Clint tried to think about anything _other_ than the feeling of Phil’s cock through that thin layer of his slacks. His shoulder still smelled of Phil’s aftershave, and Clint turned his head to inhale deeply. His thumb found the ridge of the inseam on his own tac pants, and he stroked, gently, teasingly. Just a few more miles and Clint could strip himself down, climb into his own bed, drop his Phil-scented shirt over his face, and really go to town on himself. 

He could hardly wait.

*****

Phil watched Clint’s ass until it climbed into the cab. He had untucked his shirt when he started the coffee, and he really, really hoped his shirttail was long enough to hide the reaction he’d been having since the accidental contact with Clint’s. He’d felt the twitch in Clint’s pants, but given the way Clint had jerked away so hard, it must’ve just been a physical reaction, no intent behind it. Phil was glad Clint had backed up so fast, though, since he’d gotten more than a half-chub in the very next second. 

He forced himself to walk slowly up the stairs, breathing deeply and telling himself to calm the fuck down. Bumping a guy’s dick with your own was almost a guaranteed way to get a purely physical reaction. Look at what happened to Phil. He wasn’t trying to make a move on Clint. He _couldn’t_ make a move on Clint, not with the oh-so-clear picture he’d gotten at dinner. Clint _had_ invited Phil along on his weekly dinner with his brother to bring him into the fold of their brotherhood. That was a gift that Phil wouldn’t take lightly. He knew how close the brothers had been, back when they’d only had each other. Being invited into that circle _twice_ in a lifetime…

Well, Phil wasn’t going to screw that up with his dick. No matter how long it’d been since he’d seen some action.

Over his years of service, Phil had taken what he could get, when he could get it. He’d tried the relationship thing once, but it hadn’t worked out. After that, he kept his romantic connections to a week or less. When asked, Phil had learned that a wistful smile and some vague mumble about “the one that got away” kept most people from delving further. He wasn’t faking, either, since thinking of Clint _always_ made him wistful. It was okay, though; most people went through their whole lives in the hope of finding someone _good enough_. Very few people found the perfect someone, and even fewer got to have a relationship with them.

The hard part for Phil now was carefully picking apart the thread of his old romance. He had to untie it from the reality of Clint, since Clint was no longer that boy Phil had loved so deeply. Clint was a friend now and _nothing_ more. Maybe they could even be best friends again. Maybe they could be close enough to share their thoughts and dreams and wishes. But Clint didn’t seem too interested in much more than that.

Evidence: sitting on Phil’s bed made him so uncomfortable that he downed his coffee and hurried out. 

Phil rinsed out all the coffee cups and stacked them, determined to actually wash them the next day. He also needed to run his laundry down to the washers in the basement, drop off a couple of his suits for dry-cleaning, and actually clean the bathroom. Maybe he should buy a few groceries while he was at it. It probably wouldn’t hurt him to make sure he had something green to eat sometimes. He stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed, trying not to notice that his hand smelled like Clint, where he’d cupped the back of Clint’s neck when they’d hugged that final time. 

He rolled to his stomach, pushing his hands under his pillow, rather than getting out of bed to wash them, and his fingers tangled into the chain of his tags, the ring slipping over the tip of his finger. Phil pulled the whole thing out, clenched tightly in his fist, and pressed his lips to the chain where it lay over his thumb. He tried not to think, tried not to imagine the first time Clint had given him that ring, lying across his back while he’d fucked Phil so slowly. 

The mattress squeaking alerted Phil to the fact that he’d begun to slowly hump the mattress. It’d been so long since he’d gotten himself off (thanks to the shitty shower), and even longer since he’d had a partner to get off with. All he had to do was let go of the tags with the ring and keep his mind off of Clint as he was _now_ to keep it from being inappropriate. Just...release his hand while he stuck the other beneath himself, fumbling with the button to open his fly. 

Open his fingers while he took hold of himself, move his hand away from his face until he no longer smelled the light citrus aftershave Clint had been wearing. 

Not picture Clint’s broad shoulders, the way his biceps flexed the sleeves of his shirt, the way his forearms rippled when he moved his fingers to cut his steak or lift his fork to his perfect, sharp, beautiful lips, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes crinkled, the way he felt in Phil’s arms, his arms around Phil, his face against Phil’s neck, the safety of his smile and the regard in his eyes, his beautiful eyes, his eyes...his eyes...his…

Phil had to muffle his groan by shoving his face into the pillow. 

Afterwards, completely wrung out, Phil didn’t even manage to get his hand out of his underwear before he relaxed into sleep, deep and dreamless and restful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taking SO LONG to get time to work on this. Life is so busy, and I just wish I could slow down and spend about six months doing nothing but write. But it's flowing again, finally, so I'm going to try to post faster than this for next time. I won't make any promises, because work just keeps needing more and more and more of my time.
> 
> I WILL finish this, though. And now that I've fallen in love with the story again, I hope to have it all before the end of the year.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I have like six and a half hours left in the month! I said it would be June, and I made it!
> 
> Look for updates about once a month. I'm not committing to more, but I am committing to finishing. 
> 
> Thanks to all of you who are going on this crazy journey with me. Brace yourselves, folks. These boys may have grown up on the outside, but they're still their same dorky little selves on the inside. And they still have so much to learn about communication and feelings.


End file.
